


(Almost) Made It

by MTrash (Makaria)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Pining, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9256394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makaria/pseuds/MTrash
Summary: He sees the blond young man and his first thought is -pretty.His second thought is -he’s going to die.(AU where they fall in love while killing zombies and trying not to get eaten. Fun times.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *sweats* I'm aware that this fic is not on the list of what I said I was working on - haha ha - but ohmygod these two would not let go.
> 
> More tags to be added as the story progresses!
> 
> (Lyrics at the beginning - and the title of the entire fic - from [Lorde - Everybody wants to rule the world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaVA6sgOpws))
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Shoutouts:** To the ever beautiful and kind [limitlessmonster](http://limitlessmonster.tumblr.com/) and [kaijoskopycat](http://kaijoskopycat.tumblr.com/) who patiently read the thing and said the thing was not a complete mess (also corrected the more obvious fuckups, heh). <3

_Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down_

_When they do I'll be right behind you_

* * *

He sees the blond young man and his first thought is - _pretty_.

His second thought is - _he’s going to die_.

But before Otabek can do something about it, can reach for his crossbow or make noise to distract the two walkers from the only other human on the street, he spots a flash of metal. The Blond brandishes a blade - wow, a _machete_ \- and cleaves straight through rotten flesh. One slice, two - quick and elegant - and the walkers fall with garbled noises, twitching helplessly at the Blond’s feet.

He takes a step back, blowing away strands of hair which fell out of his ponytail, and Otabek is impressed.

But he doesn’t have long to sit back and admire. A third walker rounds a corner, moving fast and with purpose towards the Blond; it must have smelled him. This time, Otabek reacts before the Blond even realizes he’s a target - he snatches his crossbow from the strap on his back and aims at the advancing zombie.

Otabek’s not close, but not too far away either, and he inhales steadily, tracking the walker with the tip of his arrow for only a second before he fires. The arrow jams itself right in the thing’s neck and it lets out a wet, gruesome cry as it stumbles to its knees in the middle of the street.

The Blond whirls around and glares right at Otabek, entire body tense, but before Otabek can think of what to say, the Blond is already backing away and sprinting off in the opposite direction.

Well, so much for making friends.

* * *

 Otabek has no idea what the town’s name is. He’s stopped keeping track of where he is and where he’s going a while back, when he could still run into an occasional person on the road.

What he does know is that it’s somewhere in Russia, and that it’s a small town, barely on the verge of urban, still with more houses than buildings. It’s well-supplied though; the stores are packed with canned food, packages with long expiration dates, bottled water, clothes, basic survival tools. There’s even medicine in a couple of drugstores he visited.

It’s like that in most smaller places. No one had taken the virus threat seriously. Maybe in America they had reacted differently, had raided the supermarkets and blocked highways while trying to escape from the inescapable, but in this part of the world it was different. People were laughing about it, waving it off and continuing on with their lives, up until the moment they couldn’t any more. Up until the moment they had lost their humanity and started ripping each other apart instead.

So, whatever this town is, Otabek decides to stay for a while. He’s in no hurry to get anywhere, anyway.

It has all the things he needs, including a tolerably low population of walkers, and plus, he’s not alone.

He doesn’t actually _know_ if the Blond is staying in town or not, but it’s a comforting thought, having someone close by who doesn’t want to feed on him. Hopefully.

* * *

It’s a sunny afternoon when he meets the Blond again, a few days later. _Hears_ him, rather.

Curse words, from one of the stores with the window smashed in - surprisingly refreshing after weeks of listening to nothing but ragged walker breathing and growling. The expletives are creative and muttered with feeling, and Otabek can’t help the hint of a smile as he stands in front of the entrance and sees the Blond inside.

He’s rummaging through piles of small medicine boxes, looking for something. Otabek takes a moment to assess him better; the Blonde is taller than him, but leaner, more slender in build, and his longer hair is in a messy ponytail again. He’s wearing combat boots and tight, black leggings, dusty in places, and a garish tiger-printed jacket that Otabek now knows is hiding the machete.

“You’ll attract every walker in town with that foul mouth of yours,” Otabek says calmly. The Blond looks up, instantly reaching for his weapon.

Slowly, Otabek holds his own hands up, his crossbow securely strapped to his back, to show that he doesn’t mean any harm.

“Fuck off,” the Blonde spits out, hand hovering halfway towards the inside of his jacket.

“You look like you could use some help,” Otabek says.

“Yeah, you can help me by minding your own fucking business.”

Otabek can’t honestly say why he feels compelled to insist. It might be something in the strain of the Blond’s voice, the frantic way he’d been going through the medicine boxes. He makes it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want any help, and yet-

“If you tell me what you’re looking for, we could find it faster.”

The Blond’s teeth are gritted so hard that Otabek sees his jaw muscle working. He wonders just how close he is to getting eviscerated with the machete.

“I promise I won’t try anything weird,” he offers, because he knows that coming across a human these days is just as dangerous - if not more - than running into a walker.

“Fine,” the Blond finally relents, but doesn’t really relax. He mumbles the name of the drug almost reluctantly and continues rifling through the chaos.

Otabek steps through the shattered window display and joins him, starting his search on the other side of the small drugstore.

“I’m Otabek, by the way,” he says.

A pause. Otabek feels the Blond’s scrutinizing gaze on him, but he pretends not to notice.

“Yuri,” the Blond says in the end.

Otabek nods, and doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t even know what he’d say. He could ask what Yuri needed the medicine for. If he was ill. If this was his hometown, or if he was just passing by, like Otabek himself is.

But the slightly hostile silence between them suggests that it’s not the time for such questions, if there ever will be any, so Otabek stays quiet. Conversation was never his strong point, anyway, back when he could’ve had it in abundance.

Yuri is growing more impatient as time goes by, now actually throwing the wrong boxes against a wall and cursing even louder.

“I meant what I said, you know,” Otabek says quietly. “Noise attracts walkers.”

“I know that!” Yuri snaps. “I just-”

He cuts himself off as they both catch a glimpse of movement on the other side of the window - a walker, but all the way on the other side of the town square. Yuri and Otabek stay still, alert, as it drags its filthy legs across, oblivious to them, and vanishes out of sight behind the building clearly marked as a bank.

“We’ll find it,” Otabek says, looking back to where he’d neatly stacked the boxes he already went through.

There’s a frustrated exhale from Yuri, but he doesn’t reply, and his method of searching seems to mellow out a bit.

It’s another long silence before Otabek says, “Here,” holding out a box of pills. “Is this it?”

Yuri takes a step forward to squint at it, before he snatches it with both hands. “Yes! That’s the one!”

For a second his face lights up, blue-green eyes bright and happy, and Otabek stares because _no, not pretty._

 _Beautiful_.

Young and golden and captivating, and maybe Otabek hasn’t seen another human being in a really long time, but he’s sure that Yuri would be equally beautiful by normal civilization standards, too.

But in the next moment Yuri’s expression closes off and he glares at Otabek again. His lips are pursed and he looks like he’s fighting with himself before he mutters, “Thanks.”

Otabek nods. “You’re welcome.”

And then Yuri turns and leaps out he drugstore window, dashing across the empty square and disappearing between the buildings.

* * *

 Otabek sleeps in his car. Though _car_ is a relative term, seeing as it’s more of an armored vehicle.

He discovered it almost as soon as he’d crossed what was once the border into Russia, and had to fight off a horde of walkers wearing tattered Russian Special Forces uniforms to get to it. He’d quietly sniped them all with the crossbow from a safe distance, and had an insane amount of luck that there was still fuel in the tank.

It’s an intimidating vehicle, with large tires, impenetrable glass, and the back big enough to fit six people inside. The outside is painted in military camouflage, and there’s a stupid number of buttons and lights on the dashboard, none of which Otabek knows how to use (and thankfully doesn’t need to, either). It’s a pain in the ass to fill up, but far better than what most others have.

Granted, Otabek hasn’t seen another moving car in at least a couple of weeks, but this one is safe enough to park almost anywhere. Walker-proof, but not deranged-humans-who-might-want-to-steal-it-proof.

He doesn’t drive it around town to conserve fuel, instead he stationed the car on the outskirts, behind a rust water tower. There are luscious green fields on three sides, as far as the eye can see, making it easy to spot anyone approaching. The water in the tower may not be good enough to drink, but at least Otabek has a place to wash up every morning. To brush his teeth and shave - there’s no way he’s growing a beard, end of the world or not.

It’s well into the second week in what Otabek has dubbed _Yuri’s town_ in his head - he’s about to lock up the back of the car and settle in for the night when he sees a glimmer of light in the distance.

The sun had already set, and there’s no electricity - the thin strip of orange is fire on the horizon, unmistakable, right where the darkening sky dips into gentle green hills. And if Otabek can make it out from this far away, it’s a _big fire_. A village burning. Or a city.

His blood boils. Otabek slams the door to his car a bit too forcefully and kneels on his blankets, jaw clenched.

He knows what the cause of the fire is - the _Salvation Brigade_. He’s only seen them from afar, heard about them from a passing survivor or two.

Mostly consisting of military men and women, the group hoards everything they can get their hands on that’s worth anything - vehicles, weapons, ammunition, food, equipment, explosives - and they’re loud and reckless. Their ‘mission’ is to exterminate the walkers, and so far they’ve been successful, going from one place to another, killing all zombies in sight, burning everything to the ground.

The trouble is that, despite their name, they don’t offer any salvation to humans. It’s either join them or die, a motto they maintain for their members, too. You’re either good enough to keep up, or you’re eliminated.

Otabek has no desire to join their uncompromising ranks. He’s much better off alone than surrounded by a bunch of trigger-happy half-wits.

It’s downright insane to go into town after sundown, but at the crack of dawn Otabek is loading up his car and getting the hell out of this place. If the Salvation Brigade is on their way here, he figures he has two days, maybe three, to haul ass.

Which is when he realizes that, this time, he’s not the only human in the vicinity. Not the only one who needs to get as far away from the Brigade as possible.

But he has no idea how to find Yuri, how to warn him about these maniacs. Going around town and shouting his name is just asking to be mobbed by walkers.

Otabek inhales deeply and forces himself to lie down. He needs sleep and he’ll figure it out tomorrow, when he’s out to get supplies for the road.

* * *

 “You’re leaving.”

It’s not a question. Otabek raises his eyebrows, still stuffing bottles of water into his bag. He doesn’t show it, but after at least an hour spent thinking of how to get in touch with Yuri that morning, he’s surprised that it’s Yuri who found him first. Who concluded that Otabek is preparing to leave.

He has a feeling that Yuri has been watching him. For days maybe, but certainly today, while Otabek siphoned fuel into the three canisters he’s taking with him, while he returned to the drugstore and scoured for any antibiotics he could find.

“Yes,” Otabek says, not looking up from the shelf in the water and juices isle. “And you should, too. The Salvation Brigade is coming.”

“The what?”

He turns to Yuri, and notices a difference immediately - Yuri’s skintone is fair, but somehow more ashen than the last time Otabek saw him, and he has dark, prominent shades under his blue eyes. He’s still holding himself straight and proud, but with a careful edge, with more effort than before. He must not have gotten enough sleep lately.

“A paramilitary group that will kill you if they find you here.”

Or worse - with Yuri’s coloring, his long blond hair and delicate features, Otabek doesn’t even want to think what they’d do to him before they end his life. Yuri’s eyes widen, and Otabek moves away from him, to the next aisle to see the assortment of canned foods.

“You should leave town,” he repeats. “They’re going to burn it to the ground, anyway. Nothing will be left.”

“But I…” Yuri says, and Otabek hears a flicker of something fragile in his voice. Something akin to the frustration with which he’d searched for medicine days earlier. “I can’t leave…”

Otabek doesn’t dwell on the _why_ ; he just makes a decision. He’s been considering the idea since he saw the distant fire last night, weighing the pros and cons, but now… Now, he’s sure of it.

“You could come with me,” he says, reaching for canned peaches. “It’ll be safer.”

And it might be. He hasn’t yet traveled with anyone out here in this wasteland, but from what he’s seen, Yuri is capable of handling himself. He obviously survived the first, biggest, outbreak; he’s fast and skillful, and maybe he’d be more of an asset than a problem.

It would be nice not to do this alone.

“So?” Otabek asks, walking back to the first aisle, standing in front of Yuri. “Are you coming or not?”

Yuri’s eyes are narrowed at him, distrusting. Otabek doesn’t blame him; the way the world has become, it’s smart to be suspicious of others.

“How do I know you’re not making this up?” Yuri asks. Whatever sudden flash of emotion he’d had is now gone.

“You don’t,” Otabek answers simply. “You can see for yourself. There’s plenty of smoke visible during the day, to the south, and I’m sure there’ll be more fire tonight. I don’t know if they’re heading over here exactly, but sooner or later, they’ll come.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything, seemingly processing this information.

“My car is parked at the water tower,” Otabek says. “I leave at dawn. Bring your own stuff.”

And with that, he turns to look for another blanket - his old one is starting to smell - and when he gets back Yuri has disappeared.

* * *

The first rays of sunlight break across the lilac sky when Otabek starts the car and turns onto the road heading into Yuri’s town. He’ll need to drive through it to continue north, as far from the Brigade as the asphalt will take him. It’s lucky that their fire spectacles are pretty good beacons for their position at any given time of the night - they’re definitely moving in this direction.

He tries not to be disappointed that Yuri didn’t come. There could be dozens of reasons for that - ranging from Yuri just not feeling like it, to him getting killed in the night. In the long run, perhaps it’s for the best for Otabek to just carry on how he used to. By himself.

He hadn’t had many friends in his old life - why should a zombie apocalypse be any different.

The armored car rolls down the streets, mostly clear of the other vehicles and debri, making it easy to pass. An occasional walker trudges by, interested in the sound of the engine, but it’s not fast enough to get close. Even if it were, Otabek has long since stopped slowing down when surrounded by humanoid creatures. Survival trumps hesitation - when the outbreak had first hit the city he’d been studying in, when his Machine Mechanics professor had tried to sink her rotten teeth into Otabek’s leg - that’s when he stopped having reservations about killing what used to be his friends and colleagues.

Self-preservation over morality.

It was only slightly easier after that. After he’d ventured out, towards Russia. After everyone he’d known by name was dead.

Which is why Otabek almost drives right on when a figure crosses the road. His brain catches up with the shouting and the waving - something that walkers _never_ do - and it takes another second for him to slam the breaks.

The car screeches to a stop in front of the figure, Otabek nearly smashing his nose into the steering wheel. With his heart pounding in his ears, he stares at Yuri, who stares right back at him through the windshield.

His long hair is loose and messy, platinum in the early sun, his eyes a little wild, bloodshot; the T-shirt underneath his gaudy tiger jacket is stained with dirt, unlike any of the previous times Otabek has seen him.

Yuri hikes up the duffel bag hanging off his shoulder, rounds the front of the car and opens the passenger door to climb in.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, gaze sweeping over the large interior, the back where there had been four extra seats facing each other before Otabek dismantled them to make room for sleeping. “You didn’t tell me you drove a fucking _tank_.”

He throws his bag in the back and Otabek bites back a smile - such a beautiful, graceful package for such filth.

“It’s been useful so far,” he says, shifting gears again and continuing towards the down exit. “Glad you made it.”

Yuri just sniffs and looks back to the front without deigning to reply. He’s rigid in his seat, tense, and Otabek thinks it has something to do with leaving this town - which might as well be Yuri’s hometown. Something to do with the fact that he’d agreed to an indefinite roadtrip with a complete stranger.

But then Yuri relaxes, sinking where he sits and propping his booted legs on the dashboard. He rummages through the pockets of his jacket and pulls out a smartphone. “Yeah, well, let’s see how useful this motherfucking monster truck really is.”

Otabek snorts. Hardly a truck.

He lets Yuri prod at the various buttons and switches on the dashboard, hoping he doesn’t accidentally activate the twin machine guns built into the car; though they probably ran out of ammo long before Otabek had gotten to drive it.

“A-ha!” Yuri exclaims victoriously. He jams one end of his power cord into a freshly-discovered USB port and plugs his phone in - it starts charging instantly.

By now the houses have thinned out and green fields stretch out on either side of the road, but Yuri doesn’t take his eyes off the small screen. Otabek glimpses a slight tremble of his fingers as he swipes across it.

“What music do you listen to?”

“What?” Otabek frowns, looking back at the road.

Yuri waves the phone impatiently. “Music. I’ve got a shitton of it. What do you like?”

It’s such a simple, mundane question that Otabek is thrown for a second. He can’t remember the last time he’d listened to music. Can’t pinpoint the exact moment he accepted he’d never hear music again.

“Anything’s fine,” he says, hands tightening around the wheel.

Yuri picks something out and a foreign song starts playing, in English. A male voice, and a guitar of a familiar melody, one Otabek had heard a lot on campus. One he knows the lyrics to.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he’s smiling now, a little. He’s smiling because he feels oddly giddy, warm and relieved at such a small thing as is listening to music again. He can’t help the tap of his knuckles against the wheel in the rhythm of the bass, can’t help mouthing the words.

Yuri must share the sentiment because when Otabek glances to the side he has his eyes closed, head leaned back and nodding along to the beat.

Yeah. Almost like a real roadtrip.

* * *

Yuri doesn’t talk a lot. In fact, until they stop for lunch, he seems content to let the tunes fill the silence, which is fine with Otabek. The sheer presence of another person - the fun, unexpected addition of music - is enough to make this morning the best Otabek’s had in almost half a year.

And when his stomach growls for the third time in thirty minutes he asks, “You hungry?”

Yuri shrugs, but reaches for his bag and Otabek takes that as his cue to steer off he side of the road, onto the greenery.

The flat plains around them are free of walkers - they’re more concentrated in residential areas, lured in my the smells and sounds and promise of still-human flesh to feast on.

Otabek and Yuri leave the car doors open, and also pull open the double doors in the back, letting fresh air in and sitting down off the back edge, legs dangling.

Otabek has a can of peas and a bit of smoked sausage; a chocolate bar for later - he tries not to indulge in sweets, even though they’re the ones with the longest expiration dates. Beside him, Yuri takes out a bag of potato chips, a carton of orange juice and-

“Is that-” Otabek frowns. “What is that?”

Yuri bristles, as though Otabek insulted him with the question. As though Yuri doesn’t get how rare, how _precious_ baked goods are. “Pirozhki,” he says defiantly. “Leftover from dinner.”

“You-” Otabek swallows hard - his mouth is watering at the golden-crusted buns, four of them the size of Yuri’s palm. “You made these?”

“Yes,” Yuri grits out, ripping a piece of one bun and stuffing it into his mouth. There’s a red filling inside, what looks like tomato sauce with pieces of bacon - Otabek tramps down a whimper.

He forces himself to turn back to his sad, drab green peas and the sausage he’d been nibbling on for every meal during the past week.

Yuri would’ve needed a stove for that. In these rural, poor areas gas- or wood-burning stoves are common enough, and it’s not far fetched to assume one could cook without electricity. But the ingredients… Flour - that’s long-lasting, sure - and baking powder, but if eggs were involved…

“Here.” Yuri throws a pirozhki at Otabek’s chest; he fumbles, drops his spork to catch the treat before it hits the grass. It’s fairly soft under his fingers, giving, and he stares at it dumbly. “If you don’t rape me and leave me for dead by dinner, you might get another one.”

Otabek’s lips twitch up in a smirk. “If I leave you for dead by dinner, I get all of them.”

He realizes how that sounds only after he says it; hears the bluntness and the vague threat of his words. But when he looks over, Yuri doesn’t seem alarmed, or frightened. His eyebrows are raised in a mildly amused expression, half-surprised and half-impressed by the reasoning.

“Well,” Yuri says. “You could _try_.”

His eyes are red-rimmed but intensely blue and sharp, just like the machete he pats over his jacket.

Otabek laughs and sinks his teeth into the fluffy dough of the pirozhki; tang of tomato and salt of tomato splash over his tongue, and one thing Otabek also hasn’t had in a long time is an orgasm, but this comes pretty damn close.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles with his mouth full. “This is amazing.”

He tries not to wolf it down in zero point seven seconds, tries to keep his cool as his tastebuds sing with appreciation.

Yuri, in turn, has maybe one more bite of his own bun before he puts it away. Before he sips on his juice and shakily screws the cap of the carton back on. It’s been hours since they’d first set off - there’s no way he’s not hungry.

But he doesn’t say a word, however, and they pack up and close the back doors, settle into the car. The music is on again and Otabek guides them onto the road.

Yuri has buried his hands in the sleeves of his jacket, tugged on the hoodie and is looking out the passenger window, obviously not interested in conversation.

Otabek doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t know Yuri, isn’t familiar with his moods or behaviors, and can’t really tell if this is normal or not. The fact that Yuri seems tired, that he barely had three bites to eat for the whole day - the possibility that his eyes are so irritated because he’d been crying - Otabek can’t do anything about that.

Not, at last, until Yuri says what’s wrong. _If_ anything’s wrong. And they’re definitely not at a point where Otabek can simply ask.

They drive until sunset, passing more fields and distant hills, some villages, when they stop just before a handful of houses and decide to sleep in the car. Otabek doesn’t want to waste time by looking for a decent house to stay in, and it’s not like they’ll be here for long. He wants to put as much distance between them and Yuri’s town as possible.

The back of the car is big enough for two to lie down, but closer together, and Otabek doesn’t like the idea of subjecting Yuri to that on their first night on the road. So he reclines the driver’s seat and makes his bed there, a nest of blankets and pillows that looks comfortable enough.

Yuri makes a similar arrangement behind Otabek, with a couple of pillows and comforters he brought with him. It’s the second half of summer, and the nights are still pleasant to sleep in.

Yuri wordlessly takes a couple of more bites of the pirozhki he’d started on at lunch, but hands the rest to Otabek without even looking at him. Otabek opens his mouth to ask if he’s sure about giving away his delicious food, but Yuri has already bundled up in his covers, all the way to the top of his golden head, and pointedly turned away from him.

Otabek finishes his own dinner quickly, leaves one bun for breakfast in case Yuri changes his mind, and lies back down himself.

And if later, in the middle of the night, Otabek wakes to the steady creak of crickets outside interrupted by a muffled sob or two, he doesn’t say anything about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Shoutouts:**
> 
>  
> 
> To [limitlessmonster](http://limitlessmonster.tumblr.com/) and [kaijoskopycat](http://kaijoskopycat.tumblr.com/), for being oddly brutal and supportive at the same time. <3

Otabek wakes to the sound of the car’s back door closing.

He’s tangled in his blankets, and takes a moment to realize why there’s a kink in his lower back (from being curled up on the driver’s seat), and what woke him up (Yuri leaving the car). Otabek drags a hand down his face to rub the sleep away and squints at the overcast, silver morning.

It’s still early; without bright sunshine, there’s a faint chill in the air.

He finds his boots at the foot of the seat, tugs them on, and steps out.

Yuri is standing a little away from the car, looking out in the direction from which they came. He’s in a fresh T-shirt this time, one that’s free of any dirt stains; without his jacket the machete is pinned to his hip, hanging down his thigh from a loop in his leggings. Otabek steps up beside him and notices the lines of exhaustion on his face, the puffiness around his blue eyes; yet Yuri’s voice is steady when he says,

“The smoke’s bigger now.”

The breeze is gently playing with wisps of Yuri’s hair and Otabek looks away to the view in front of them. There _is_ a lot more smoke today, far beyond the hills.

“They probably reached your town,” Otabek says, voice sleep-rough. He clears his throat. “Started burning it, attracting more walkers to get rid of them.”

Yuri doesn’t reply, but Otabek feels him tense up, glances over to see Yuri’s gaze glacier cold, hard and unforgiving.

“Come on,” Otabek says, turning back to the car. “We need to get moving.”

They each have a toothbrush and toothpaste, and they use as little water from the bottles as possible to wash the minty taste away. They don’t actually have a way of washing up more than that, but at least neither of them smells. Yet. Otabek decides against his usual morning workout for exactly this reason, choosing not to have Yuri choke on his sweat in the confines of the vehicle.

Yuri sits off the back edge of the car again and is unpacking his bag of chips when Otabek thrusts the remaining pirozhki under his nose.

“You should eat it,” he says when Yuri glares up at him, for some reason displeased at being offered the food he’d baked himself. “Who knows when you’ll get another chance to make these again.”

He doesn’t say that it’s probably _never_. They both already know that.

Yuri holds his glare - _withering_ \- a second longer, before he directs it at the pirozhki, as though he can fry it to dust by the power of his eyes alone. He then snatches it off Otabek’s hand and takes a forceful bite, chewing angrily and muttering something about it already being _as hard as stone_ , which Otabek knows it’s not.

Otabek has his usual share of peas and sausage, sitting in silence beside Yuri and paying attention to just how much he eats. It’s not a lot more than yesterday - when he’s apparently done with breakfast, Yuri shoves the last third of the pirozhki into Otabek’s chest and stomps away to the front of the car before Otabek can protest.

* * *

They settle into something resembling a routine after that.

For a few days they drive without stopping, getting farther and farther away from the smoking ruins of Yuri’s hometown, mostly in the general direction of Moscow and Europe, even though Otabek thinks it’s not a good idea to actually set foot in a major city. Who knows just how many walkers, just what type of crazy lurks in the concrete jungle.

Yuri’s phone might as well be a radio because the same song never plays twice, and, as far as Otabek can tell from his curious glances to where Yuri fiddles with the music app, it’s all divided into numerous playlists. Gigabytes and gigabytes of music.

They don’t talk. They exchange questions about when to take breaks, when to eat and when to turn in, but they don’t really talk. Otabek doesn’t have anything against it, but he notices how little Yuri sleeps, how little he eats, how paler and paler he gets. Yuri pretends he’s fine; he doesn’t complain, his eyes certainly don’t lack fire, but Otabek sees that something is eating at him little by little.

But Yuri’s stubborn and maybe even more unsociable than Otabek, and he spends the journey looking out the window, or playing a game on his phone, or napping.

Otabek still sleeps half-curled in on himself on the reclined driver’s seat, still wakes up with a sore stiffness in his lower back.

Still acts like he doesn’t hear Yuri crying at night.

* * *

They’re having lunch in their usual spot in the back of the car - Otabek having moved on to canned corn and Yuri reluctantly munching on his chips and what looks like winter salami - when Otabek suggests,

“We could find a house to sleep in tonight.”

Yuri pauses in his chewing. “A house? Like, _someone’s_ house?”

Otabek shrugs. Wouldn’t be the first time he did that. “Practically all of the houses we pass are unoccupied, and we could both use a decent bed.” And a cold bath, if they can find a well. Shouldn’t be too hard out here, in the countryside; there’s practically one for every household.

Yuri seems mildly scandalized by the idea of entering someone else’s home and sleeping in their bed, but, between one potato chip and the next, his expression changes into a scowl. “Fine, whatever.”

“We don’t have to if you’re-” Otabek starts, but Yuri cuts him off.

“What did you, go deaf from all the music? I said it’s _fine_.”

Otabek is slowly learning that Yuri’s default reaction in the face of unknown is anger, as though the strange thing has wronged him by daring to be unfamiliar. Even more so, it seems, if he thinks his dignity is threatened, too.

Otabek understands that it’s a way for Yuri to protect himself, to be cautious and hide his insecurities behind this aggressive facade, much like a wary cat. After all, at the end of the day, they don’t know each other well; there’s no reason for Yuri to let his guard down around Otabek.

However, on at least a couple of occasions Otabek found himself wondering what was beneath that anger-infused surface. He’s curious what Yuri’s like when he’s relaxed, when he’s not weighed down by whatever is troubling him.

He’s curious what Yuri looks like when he smiles in earnest.

When they reach the next village Otabek parks the car behind a dilapidated house on the edge of it, and the two of them set to explore the place on foot. Otabek’s not really expecting other humans - probably a few walkers, judging by the small number of houses - but still, Yuri’s holding his machete in his hand, and Otabek has taken his crossbow off the strap across his back.

Houses are lined up on both sides of the main road, calm in the cloudy day, with the overgrown front lawns the only indication they’d been abandoned.

“It’s so quiet,” Yuri says. “I mean, my town was quiet, but I kind of… I didn’t think it would be like that _everywhere_.”

Otabek had the same feeling, when the hysteria from the initial outbreak had died down. The same eerie silence all around, stillness of a cemetery.

“You get used to it,” he says.

But in that moment a soft, repeated thumping reaches them - they easily spot a walker in one of the front yards ahead. It’s fenced in and mindlessly trying to get out, knocking against the sturdy wooden boards. Not the brightest, zombies. Also not good with dexterous hand work, which makes it easy to lock them in pretty much anywhere.

Without pausing in his walk Otabek lifts his crossbow to end its misery; one clean shot to the neck and the walker falls back with a cry, fruitlessly clawing at where the arrow had jammed itself.

When they get close enough to the yard Otabek to reaches over the wooden fence and yanks his arrow back, wiping what passes for blood in walkers - darker and more viscous - on the grass, and fitting it to the crossbow again. He has a quiver with spares fitted to the underside of the weapon, but there’s no point in wasting them if he can help it.

“Where’d you get all of that, anyway?” Yuri asks, narrowing his eyes at the equipment as they continue down the road. “Did you murder someone for it or something?”

Otabek snorts. “No. I raided a sports store. Thought a long-range weapon might come in handy. I’ve been using a bat and a knife up until then.” He still has the sheathed knife tucked in the back of his jeans, for when the fighting gets too close for a crossbow. “Taught myself how to shoot.” He smiles bitterly. “Lots of targets to practice on.”

Took him about two months of gunning down walkers on a daily basis to finally understand how the crossbow worked. Another two to actually get good at using it. Now… now, he has trouble remembering what it felt like, going outside without it.

“How about this one?” Yuri asks suddenly, pausing in front of a house.

It’s marginally better-standing than the others, with a facade painted in a crisp peach color and with white decorative frames around windows. Someone wealthier, more important, must’ve lived here.

“Sure,” Otabek agrees, gaze sweeping over the tall grass around a stone path to the entrance door. But when Yuri takes a step forward, he holds out a hand to stop him. “Wait. Um. We might run into-”

“Smelly, rotten dead bodies?” Yuri finishes for him, with an unimpressed quirk of his brow. He snorts. “I’m good as long as they don’t try to bite my head off.”

“Right.” Otabek follows Yuri down the path and through the unlocked door, realizing it might’ve been a stupid warning. After all, walkers are no different than the decaying corpses lying about, with the exception that they’re actively trying to kill them.

It’s the same quiet inside, and it’s neat, on the ground floor - without the layer of dust covering the antique furniture it would look like someone was still living there. Otabek slowly makes his way back, into the kitchen, while Yuri takes the stairs to the second floor.

The stove is electric - useless - and Otabek’s not opening the fridge; even if there was food inside, it has long gone to waste. There’s a pantry, mostly with jars of jam and homemade tomato sauce and boxes of pasta stacked on the shelves-

A shriek rings out through the house - from upstairs. Otabek jumps and knocks over a jar that splatters bright red over the tiled floor.

“Yuri!” he calls, and he’s already running, leaving his crossbow on the nearest surface and reaching for his knife. His heart hammers in his chest, feet pounding up the stairs.

_Shit, shit, shit-_

A walker, or another person who took up residence in the house - _he shouldn’t have let Yuri go up alone…_ Otabek clenches the handle of his knife-

But in the long hallway leading from the top of the stairs, Otabek hears distinct curses, which don’t sound agonized or frightened at all. More like _seriously_ _pissed off._

“Fucking-” _Thump!_ “-piece-” _Thump!_ “-of zombified shit-” _Thump!_

Otabek follows the noise and finds Yuri standing in front of a doorway, repeatedly slamming the door into a walker’s head as the creature lies lifelessly on the floor.

“Scaring-” _Thump!_ “-the crap-” _Thump!_ “-out of me!” _Thump!_

What had been a skull is now a half-pulverized mass of bone and almost-black blood, the remainder of the walker’s body twitching with every hit of the door. Otabek comes closer, thinking how his sense of humor has degraded since the start of this whole nightmare, because this is somehow amusing to him.

“-dropped-” _Thump!_ “-my fucking-” _Thump!_ “-blade-” _Thump!_ “-because of y-”

“Yuri,” Otabek says calmly, barely containing a smile. He stands beside Yuri and looks down at the zombie which never stood a chance. “I’m pretty sure it can’t get any more dead than that.”

Yuri stops, still gripping the door, out of breath and with his hair all in disarray. “Almost- had a heart attack,” he pants. “It jumped out from the room, just- fucking-” He lets go of the door and steps back, running a hand through his hair, making it even worse.

“You okay?” Otabek asks, more as a courtesy, because there’s obviously nothing wrong with Yuri. Not even a scratch.

“Yeah, I’m...” Yuri leans back on the wall, settling his breathing. He looks down at the beaten walker and then at Otabek, and Otabek swears there’s a touch of a smile on his lips. “That felt good.”

Interesting.

“Want to go find some more to vent on?” Otabek asks, only half-joking, but Yuri’s smile widens, still a small one, but there, and _genuine_ , with blue eyes alight with the idea.

Something warm curls in Otabek’s chest, even as Yuri accepts his invitation to roam the little village in search of more zombies to kill.

Forget the sense of humor, Otabek’s entire compass of what’s appropriate and what’s not has clearly gone to shit.

But then, the whole of society has, too.

* * *

There aren’t many houses, and there’s only so much daylight left for them to explore, but Yuri does mow down a few more walkers, those that were unfortunate enough to hang outside. He uses his machete, but Otabek also lets him borrow the crossbow - he doesn’t laugh when Yuri misses every shot and instead knocks the walker out by hurling the entire crossbow at its head.

Otabek promises to teach him how to shoot next time.

By the end of the day, as they return to the fancy house (with the walker corpse still on the second floor - they’d need to get rid of it), Yuri is flushed, his jacket tied around his waist and his T-shirt damp in spots, clinging to his lithe frame; he looks… pleased. Maybe not happy yet, but far better than before. Otabek thinks there’s a chance he’d eat a decent meal, too.

With the last of the sunlight they take a short walk to a well they found a few backyards over, a brick wall around it and a straw roof over it. They both need a wash, and Otabek volunteers to be on guard first as Yuri hauls a bucket of water from the depths of the well.

He allows himself only a minute of watching. One minute where Yuri peels his T-shirt off, revealing a smooth back, all lean muscle and porcelain skin, a slim waist... His hair comes untied with the T-shirt, spilling in bright gold over his shoulders; Otabek stares, fingers tingling with a vague need to touch, to _feel_ -

When Yuri hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his leggings, Otabek blinks and turns around to give him privacy for the rest of the bath.

It’s not smart, this thing. This… admiration. Attraction. It’s farthest from smart as it can be at the moment, and Otabek needs to stop it before it catches fire.

Right _now_.

* * *

They have dinner in the living room, on the probably-expensive-but-still-springy vintage armchairs, with their food in their laps. Darkness is slowly creeping in through the windows, and Yuri switched on the flashlight option on his phone, casting a white glow on their cans and dry food.

He does eat more than any other time they had a meal together, though Otabek suspects still not as much as he _should_. Yuri’s the one who finishes up first, takes his phone with him to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of clear liquid that he puts down on a clawed foot table between them.

Otabek glances up at him, packing away his canned corn. “Vodka?”

“I feel like our current life situation is shitty enough that we deserve a good fucking drink.”

Yuri’s hair is still damp from the wash and he’d collected it under the hoodie of his tiger jacket, which he put on because he’d been shivering from the cold water. The same reason Otabek is sitting in his armchair fully dressed and with one of his blankets thrown over his shoulders.

Yuri doesn’t wait for him to acknowledge that, yes, in the past six months, both of their lives have gone off the rails probably in more ways than one - as evidenced by their most recent ‘shower’ experiences - and just helps himself. He sits back down, opens the bottle and takes a swig, making a face as he swallows it down, one of a person not used to drinking spirits.

“So,” Yuri says when he returns the bottle to the table. He’s looking at Otabek almost angrily. “What’s your deal?”

“My _deal?_ ”

“Yeah.” Before Otabek can even think of tasting the vodka, Yuri reaches for it and takes another big gulp, again grimacing. “We’ve been travelling for… What, almost a week? And I don’t know anything about you.”

Otabek shrugs. “I don’t know anything about you, either,” he says, and then watches as Yuri drinks for the third time. He’s going to get wasted if he continues at this pace, and hangovers and not-getting-killed by zombies don’t go well together.

Yuri snorts derisively, putting the bottle back. “I asked you first.”

“...Okay.”

Otabek leans forward and takes the bottle, helping himself with a sip. It burns down his throat, roils in his half-full stomach, and he doesn’t close the bottle, doesn’t set it back. He’ll take time with it, to slow Yuri down if nothing else.

“I’m from Kazakhstan,” he says. “23 years old, and I’m a…” He pauses, then rephrases, “I _was_ an engineering student.”

Rather, he still is, and will always be one, seeing as he’ll never graduate. Funny how that works.

Yuri’s watching him, eyes piercing in the phone light. “How’d you get all the way here?”

“Drove.” Otabek looks down at the bottle in his lap. “Rode a bike, first. To my hometown. Then took my family car. Then found this, in Russia. The tank,” he adds, and Yuri snorts again, but this time out of amusement. Otabek looks back up at him. “What about you?”

There’s a contemplative pause, where Yuri glares at a spot on the table as though he can scorch it, and Otabek starts to think he won’t answer, or he’s thinking what lie to tell, or-

“I’m 21,” Yuri mumbles at last. He lifts his feet up and curls his legs under him in the armchair. “Where we met, that’s my hometown, but I didn’t live there. I was just visiting when it all went to hell.”

Otabek takes another sip of the vodka and waits to see if Yuri will continue.

“I was…” Yuri hesitates, and Otabek thinks he can recognize the same moment, of _I was_ , _I will never be again_. As though up until now all of this had just been a game, an alternative version of their reality and they’d be back to their life in no time. At the press of a button, the end of the world would dissolve, and Otabek would be back in the auditorium for his next class, and his sister would not. stop. texting him-

“I was a principal dancer,” Yuri says. He meets Otabek’s gaze steadily, resigned to the past tense; tilts his chin up. “At the Mariinsky Ballet in St. Petersburg. I was the youngest soloist in the company.”

A ballet dancer. A ballet dancer in one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the whole of Russia, and wider. A _soloist._ Otabek doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Yuri frowns at him.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Otabek says. “I was just thinking how… fitting it was.” Yuri’s grace, his strength, poise, even his prickly character...

“Yeah?” Yuri doesn’t sound touched. _Annoyed_ is a better word for it. “If the next thing out of your mouth is a joke about fairies or prima ballerinas I swear I will chop off your fucking-”

“No, that’s not it,” Otabek cuts him off evenly. He drinks more of the vodka and returns the bottle to the table, not shying away from Yuri’s glower. “I meant in the sense that you’re... made of steel.”

A layered core of iron-clad discipline, hard work and determination wrapped in an elegant, deceivingly fragile package - Otabek doesn’t know a lot about ballet dancers, but he knows what they’re made of. He knows what kind of sacrifice, what amount of sweat and tears goes into becoming one, especially one as successful as Yuri.

“My sisters, they…” Otabek starts. “They were far from your level, but they attended lessons.” He smiles wistfully. “They tried to get me into it when we were kids, but I was never any good.”

Yuri’s annoyance has been replaced with something more open now, almost curious, and he’s listening intently.

“I see it in your eyes,” Otabek says. That ferocity; that resolve strong enough to level cities. “You’re strong.”

For a moment Yuri seems surprised at this, but then he breaks eye contact and slouches in his seat. “I’ve heard hundreds of comparisons to delicate flowers,” he mutters; the rest of the sentence is implied - _but none to metal used for crafting sharp, deadly weapons._ Yuri snatches the bottle off the table and drinks. “Fucking people thinking they’re fucking funny.”

“People are idiots,” Otabek says easily, and Yuri nods.

“Makes it a bit easier that most of them are dead.”

It’s a stupid, morbid joke, but they both laugh, somehow finding comfort in it.

They fall into companionable silence then, for a while just taking turns drinking. Otabek’s getting lightheaded - that sluggish, cottony feel of tipsiness he hadn’t experienced in quite a while, when time passes just a tad slower than normal. Yuri’s cheeks are tinted rosy, his posture the most relaxed Otabek has seen since they met, and he stops making faces after his sips.

Otabek wonders if he’d feel the heat of Yuri’s blush if he pressed his lips there. If he kissed the line of his cheekbone, or up-

“You had sisters?” Yuri asks quietly, breaking the uninhibited stream of Otabek’s imaginings.

It takes Otabek a second to understand the question. To realize it entails talking more about his family, which he hadn’t done since… Well.

Since he buried them.

“Yes,” he says, feeling the all too familiar weight on his chest now. One that’s been with him for about half a year. “Two sisters and one brother.”

“Older or younger?”

“One older sister,” Otabek replies. “Then me. Then the second sister. Then the brother.”

It’s too easy - too fucking easy to spiral into thoughts he’d turned in his mind hundreds of times over; how it’s only a matter of time when his older sister isn’t older than him anymore, because he’s here, living and breathing, and she isn’t, and _I’ll see you soon-_

_“Just be careful. Tell mom I love her, too. I’ll see you all soon.”_

Not soon enough. Not when it was already chaos and screaming and the front door of his family home hanging crookedly off its hinges-

Otabek tries to keep his composure. He’s not sure what’s happening; all of his emotions, together with the intoxication, bleed into one another - this jumbled mess of rage and confusion, loneliness and _consuming grief_... Otabek shifts in his seat, does his best to contain them.

This isn’t the time, the place, or the company for him to break down.

“Are they…?” Yuri asks tentatively.

Otabek can’t suppress a pained smile.

“I wouldn’t be here - in another country, drinking cheap vodka with a person I met only a few weeks ago, if any of them made it.” He looks down at his hands, remembers holding a shovel, the smell of freshly-dug earth. “I would’ve…” _Protected them. Fought for them._

_Died with them._

“I wouldn’t have left them,” he says, barely a whisper. He doesn’t feel like crying; only unable to breathe, choking on his own survival. Which isn’t a new feeling, when he thinks about it.

“I don’t doubt that,” Yuri says, with such confidence that Otabek looks up at him. At his eyes, dark in the dim light, and the little smile, as though steel recognized steel.

It loosens the knot in Otabek’s ribcage just a smidgen. A little more when Yuri hands him the bottle, now almost half-empty, and says, “For family.”

“For family,” Otabek repeats and drinks more in one go, the burn of the alcohol grounding him.

* * *

There is a master bedroom in the house - on the second floor, now free of smashed-in walker bodies - but its door is closed, and the walls around it are stained with what looks suspiciously like blood, so both Yuri and Otabek voted not to try and get in. There are no sounds from within, so whatever is inside is dead, and they don’t really have a need to see it.

They’re staying in a child’s room instead, with two beds pushed against opposite walls and plenty of toys scattered around the floor - colorful cars, trucks and trains, with a single Barbie doll among them.

As much as he gets by with staying in strangers’ houses, Otabek draws the line at sleeping in strangers’ sheets, so he strips his mattress and piles his own blankets and pillows on top of it. Yuri does the same for his bed, and they bid each other good night before Yuri turns off the phone flashlight.

It’s the first night Otabek doesn’t wake up to Yuri quietly sobbing under his covers.

* * *

It’s getting colder.

The days are tolerable, but as soon as the sun sets the temperature drops, making it difficult to sleep without a jacket on, without burrowing in blankets.

They’ll need to look for warmer clothes soon. To figure out how to survive a Russian winter, or, more likely, change course towards warmer climates.

After the first house they stayed in, it becomes a habit to find a suitable place for spending the night whenever they enter a new village or town. Sometimes they don’t bother and still sleep in the car, but sometimes they explore more than necessary. They inspect other people’s homes; they pass the time trying to figure out how they lived, what they did, what they liked; if they survived or not.

Yuri is more talkative now, if not about himself then in general, and he’s still a bit faded at the edges, but improving gradually. Sleeping more, if nothing else.

He’s still taking great pleasure in killing every zombie that crosses their path, and maybe Otabek is also taking some pleasure in watching Yuri do it.

“Strawberries,” Yuri says one morning at breakfast, dangling his legs off the back of the car. It’s barely dawn and he’s wearing layers underneath his tiger jacket - all four shirts he’d brought with him - and crunching on store-bought (store- _found,_ more precisely) toast.

“What?” Otabek frowns at the heavy gray clouds over the horizon, promising rain.

“I miss strawberries,” Yuri clarifies.

“Oh.” Otabek thinks about this, and he knows it’s not the season for strawberries, but yes, he supposes he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have those again. Probably not. “Watermelon,” he offers, thinking about the watery sweetness of his favorite fruit.

“Strawberry jam,” Yuri says.

“Mutton.”

“Strawberry ice-cream.”

Otabek snorts, then adds, “My mom’s four-layer chocolate cake.” That she used to make only for birthdays, and which Otabek and his siblings always fought for, meticulously drawing lines and dividing the dessert in portions according to the order of birth.

“Yes, cake,” Yuri agrees.

“Let me guess - strawberry cake?” Otabek teases, and Yuri shoots him a look, but he’s smiling a little.

“Raspberry’s fine, too.”

* * *

In a cluster of houses that’s barely a village they restock on food and water from a poor corner store and find a dusty clothes shop that no one even bothered to break into.

They replace their T-shirts with new ones, take sweatshirts and hoodies, too. Back in late March, early April, when all of this started, the last remains of winterwear were selling out, so it isn’t difficult to find what they’re looking for. Otabek picks out a wooly scarf for him, a beanie and a pair of leather gloves - all in black, while Yuri pulls on a white winter hat with-

Otabek huffs out a chuckle, while Yuri glowers at him from under the white, fluffy cat ears of his hat.

“Fuck you,” Yuri snaps, and then looks himself over in the mirror again. “I look great.”

He does look great. Adorable, irritated and scowling, his hair in a braid weaving down one shoulder and Otabek… He swallows his amusement, because he realizes that he wants to-

No, _nope_ , this is exactly what Otabek shouldn’t be thinking. He shouldn’t want to cross the shop and tug on those silly cat ears to get Yuri to bat his hand away, shouldn’t want to tell Yuri how maddeningly cute he is, even when he’s angry - or _especially_ when he’s angry… This isn’t okay, this warm giddiness isn’t what he should be feeling towards what is essentially his travel companion-

Otabek snaps to reality when a trashcan falls over in front of the broken display window of the store. It clangs away on the pavement and is quickly followed by two walkers which had knocked it over, growling and intent on climbing through to get to Yuri, who’s the closest.

But Yuri merely takes a step back, flattens himself against a side wall for Otabek to take better aim with his crossbow and bring down both walkers before they could even figure out a way to enter.

“Come on,” Yuri says, hopping over to the ground and pulling out one of the arrows from the walker’s chest with a _squelch._ He’s still wearing the cat hat. “Let’s find a place to sleep in.”

They settle on a small, boxy house at the edge of the tiny village. It has a convenient barn behind which they park the car, away from curious eyes on the road.

There is a stable, too, and judging by the suffocating stench hovering around it, whatever animals had lived there are in the process of decomposing. Halfway between the stable and the barn is a well, thankfully, and there are no walkers on the property.

Not outside, at least.

Yuri and Otabek take the few steps up to the front door of the house, which is open and swinging a little, creaking in the autumn wind.

They split up, with Yuri taking the back rooms, and Otabek, as always, heading for the kitchen first. It’s a small space, barely big enough for two people to squeeze at the table, with a rusty fridge and an old-fashioned wood burning stove. Maybe they’ll be in luck with firewood and actually have a warm dinner for once.

Wood is usually stored in a shed outside the house, but Otabek steps into the hallway dividing the kitchen and the living room anyway, to see if there’s an indoor place for keeping it-

And there might be.

A smaller door, its paint chipped in places, which looks like it hasn’t been opened in a while, like it could be the door to a storage place. Otabek presses an ear to it - silence on the other side, and no obvious signs of struggle. But when he tries the handle, the door doesn’t budge.

Otabek sets down his crossbow and pulls at the handle with both hands now, still without success.

Then he remembers a fire iron beside the stove and fetches it, jamming one end between the door and its frame, and leaning with all his weight on the other, trying to pry it open.

The wood splinters - Otabek isn’t sure if it’s the door or the frame - but after the _CRACK!_ ripping through the air, he realizes he’s made a mistake.

He barely has time to snatch his crossbow from the floor before the door to what is actually a basement bursts open, slamming into the wall of the corridor. One walker barrels out, suddenly loud and growling in the daylight, followed by a second, third - Otabek scrambles back towards the front door, firing off an arrow into an eye.

But the fallen zombie is just trampled by the others, too many to count, pouring out of the basement in every direction.

“YURI!” Otabek shouts as he reloads, retreating. He can’t get to him, _dammit,_ the only way is through the hallway flooded with walkers- “YURI, GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!”

He shoots another walker directly under a protruding collarbone, but he only has so many arrows - not enough for all of them. Rotten, filthy hands grab at him, advancing - Otabek makes for the door, breaks out onto the front porch and slams it shut. He has only a second to drag a sturdy, metal swing bench from the porch to block the door.

To barricade the walkers inside the house.

Where Yuri is also still in.

“Fuck!”

Otabek jumps over the porch railing and sprints towards the back.

“YURI!” Maybe he had already climbed a window; he must have, there was enough time-

But when Otabek rounds the house, there’s nothing.

No opened or broken window, no Yuri standing outside, hair disheveled, cursing the sudden walker rush.

_No, no, NO-_

Otabek’s heart thunders in his ears, adrenaline making him hyper aware - of the foul, bone-rattling snarling from inside, of the reek from the stables. He notices movement behind one of the windows, and raises his crossbow - now two arrows down - but he doesn’t see clearly, he doesn’t know what it is, _who it-_

The window pane shatters when something flies through it, hits the mud beside Otabek’s boots - a leathery, gray walker head, severed from the rest of its body.

“Otabek!”  
  
Otabek turns, and his body reacts before his mind catches up - he runs towards the broken window, once again dropping his crossbow and lifting his arms to help Yuri out; to wrap his hands around Yuri’s waist and take on his weight, both careful of glass shards sticking out of the window frame, of the stained machete in Yuri’s hand.

Yuri clutches at Otabek’s shoulders as he jumps down finally, but doesn’t let go, just keeps holding on as it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hair is indeed as disheveled as Otabek had pictured it, blue eyes wide, and he’s shaking. He’d fought his way out, but he’s _terrified._

“What the everloving fuck?” Yuri breathes.

“Are you hurt?” Otabek asks, as gently as he can manage, consciously not brushing the stray blond away from Yuri’s heated face. _Not_ pulling him in any closer.

“No, I don’t think so, I- How did so many of them get in there?!”

Otabek opens his mouth to answer, but then a bony hand swipes at them from the window. Yuri yelps, does his best to cut off the hand with his machete while Otabek grabs his crossbow. He then tugs Yuri away and they take off towards the car, before the horde of walkers finds a way out of the house and swarms them.

* * *

They don’t stop until the next village.

When Otabek parks at the side of the road they catch their breath, and Yuri finally stops trembling in the passenger seat; stops trying to hide it by wiping his machete clean with a dirty old sock.

“It was a nest,” Otabek breaks the silence. He sighs heavily, leaning back and closing his eyes, sinking in his uncomfortable seat. “Walkers like dark, damp places, like basements. They gravitate towards them, and make like… nests. I didn’t have the time to check, but I guess there was a window somewhere, leading to it, and maybe they just kept falling in or something.”

“I heard you shouting,” Yuri says. “But they were already there- a couple got through to the room I was in. I… I don’t know, I got the door closed and…”

Otabek smirks to himself. “And you decapitated one of them to have something to break the window with?”

“Not like it was gonna miss its head,” Yuri mutters. “I was angry.”

 _And scared_ hangs in the air, though Yuri doesn’t say it.

Maybe Otabek was scared, too.

He still feels Yuri’s waist under his palms - warm, and Yuri’s grip on his shoulders - _tight_ , his weight in his arms… He wants to reach out now, find Yuri’s hand and hold it in his, between their seats. Maybe drag his thumb over Yuri’s knuckles, feel them solid and reassuring under his touch, proof that they’re both still in one piece.

“You were badass,” Otabek says instead, swallowing down his need for physical contact.

There’s a sound like a choke, and he looks up in time to glimpse Yuri’s red cheeks as he turns his head away. “Shuddup.”

* * *

They don’t even try to find a new house to stay in that night, but quickly wash up in the nearest well and hole up in the car as darkness sets in.

Otabek curls up as small as he can be on the driver’s seat, covered in blankets to the top of his ears. It usually takes him a while to warm up, more and more these days, but now it’s a chill he can’t shake off. From inside his chest, it feels - too many cold baths, too many nights sleeping with everything he has on and still shivering.

And having nearly died today, apparently, isn’t helping.

He flinches in his sleep at the distant sound of the basement door slamming open again - in a weird haze between dream and reality - and behind him Yuri says, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It takes Otabek a moment to weed through his subconscious and realize he's supposed to reply. “What?”

“I can’t sleep with you practically vibrating out of your seat.”

“It’s cold. I can’t do anything about it.”

“You can come sleep next to me.”

It’s delivered so casually that Otabek first doesn’t get it. Then, “What?”

“We both know we’ll be warmer closer together,” Yuri continues, as though he’s explaining this to a child. “There won’t be so much space to be comfortable, but fuck it. A kink in the neck is better than freezing to death.”

“I won’t freeze to death,” Otabek says. He’s pretty sure of it, too. The temperature needs to drop at least a few more degrees for him to be in danger of that.

“Whatever,” Yuri sighs again. “Do what you want. But if you wake me up again, I will punch you out.”

Otabek chuckles, despite himself.

“You could _try_ ,” he uses Yuri’s words against him and relishes in the small snort he gets in return.

He should refuse, he knows that. Rather, he’d already refused, and he should stick to it.

But, he rationalizes, he _is_ cold, and as long as he’s that he won’t be able to sleep, and he probably _will_ keep waking Yuri up, and-

Otabek gets up before he allows his usually stronger, more alert honorable side to take over. He moves his pile of blankets and pillows next to Yuri in the back of the car and stretches alongside him.

There’s a dozen layers of clothes and fabric between them, and Yuri’s back is turned to Otabek, Yuri decidedly ignoring him.

But still, the last thing Otabek sees before he closes his eyes again is Yuri’s hair fanned over the pillow, pale silver in the moonlight. Ethereal, and so calming to Otabek, this quiet closeness, comfort; not only because it’s another person, another human being, but because it’s _Yuri_ , so abrasive and courageous, beautiful and sharp at the same time. Breathtaking.

Yes, Otabek knows he’s fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmygod thank you all so much for the wonderful response to the first chapter. I am... wow. Yes. I hope this one didn't disappoint <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was a monster of a chapter o.O
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Shoutouts:**
> 
> To [kaijoskopycat](http://kaijoskopycat.tumblr.com/), for being supportive af.

_And if you are gone, I will not belong here_

* * *

Otabek jerks awake when something lands on his face. He frowns, props himself up on his elbow, and it takes a few dazed blinks to realize that it’s a hand, now on his pillow - slender and relaxed; Yuri had broken free from his blanket burrito, rolled over in his sleep and smacked Otabek in the process.

The cold, cloudy dawn seeps through the car windows, tinting everything a ghostly gray, and Otabek smiles, watching Yuri’s peaceful face. The sweep of his golden lashes over his cheekbones, the curve of his upper lip, pink and wet… How his hair is absolutely _everywhere_ and it’s a miracle Yuri hasn’t choked on it yet.

Then again, Otabek’s own hair is getting longer, now occasionally falling into his eyes. He’ll need to cut it soon. Shave off part of it again, if he finds with what.

It’s when he’s untangling himself from his own pile of blankets and shrugging on his jacket that Yuri stirs again. He lets out a hum, then croaks,

“Coffee.”

Otabek smiles, reaching for his boots. He’s not sure if Yuri is still half-asleep and not realizing that coffee is only the nectar of dreams these days, or if he’s continuing the game they’ve been playing on and off for a couple of weeks now.

“Soup,” Otabek says anyway. “Chicken soup.”

“ _Mrrrhmph._ ” Yuri turns, buries his face in his pillow. “ _Shoup_ ,” he agrees, voice muffled. “Mashed potatosh.”

Otabek’s stomach likes the sound of that - a warm, home-cooked meal, with real meat and real vegetables and gravy, and maybe cake after that. A large table which is still not big enough for his entire family - grandparents included - and the kind of loud atmosphere where no one can hear a word anyone else is saying.

He swallows over the hollow feeling in his chest and decides to change the subject until he’s at least brushed his teeth and had his meager breakfast.

“Gym,” he says, thinking how everyday now he exercises in whichever place he happens to wake up in. It was easier when he’d actually had equipment and a specific training regiment.

Silence follows and Otabek thinks Yuri has fallen asleep again (wouldn’t be the first time). He moves to open the back door when Yuri mutters,

“Performing.”

Otabek pauses. Yuri moves again, turning his head so he can open his eyes and blink thoughtfully at the metal side of the car.  
  
“I miss the stage,” he says.

“I know,” is all Otabek can say in return, softly. They both have visions, memories which will only fade with time. “I know.”

* * *

As far as they can tell by the road signs, they’re still in Russia, heading south. They should really make an effort to find a map somewhere, because their plan is to reach Georgia, and then the Black Sea coastline, where the temperatures will at least be above zero, and then follow that towards Europe.

“88… 89… 90…” Yuri counts, munching on some cheap, spongy sweet, which is more synthetic than anything, with an absurdly long expiration date. “Do you think there are walkers by the sea?”

“Don’t-” Otabek huffs, not stopping with his push ups. “-see- why not.”

“93… Kind of sounds - 94 - surreal. Zombies on the beach.” Yuri snorts. He’s sitting on the back edge of the car, his booted feet resting between Otabek’s shoulder blades, moving up and down along with him - extra weight for his work out. “97… 98… With like flower shirts and swimming shorts and cameras around their necks.”

“100!” Otabek exclaims and bends his knees to the ground, sweaty and flushed and laughing breathlessly at the image. “There were probably tourists somewhere, when the virus started spreading. It’s not far-fetched to imagine walkers dressed like tourists.”

Yuri chuckles. “Yeah, I guess. Walkers with floaties.” He laughs even louder as he pulls his legs back and takes another bite of his treat.

Otabek gets up, dusts off his jeans and digs around his bag beside Yuri to find a bottle of water. His T-shirt is soaked through, sticking to his body - he’ll need to change quickly if he doesn’t want to catch pneumonia in this freezing weather. He takes a few long gulps of water and then pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow-

There’s a strangled noise next to him, followed by a violent cough - Yuri seems to have inhaled the last piece of his sweet and is now struggling to breathe. Otabek slaps him on the back a couple of times and Yuri nods, even though he’s tearing up.

“I-I’m okay,” he rasps, snatching Otabek’s water from his hand and chugging from it with determination. He then stands up, though unsteadily, and makes his way towards the front of the car.

“After surviving for so long, it’d probably be the stupidest way to go, choking on dumb candy,” Otabek jokingly calls. He catches a weak, “Hah, yeah,” from Yuri, before he heads for the well to wash up and change.

* * *

Rock music blasts from the speakers. Otabek’s one hand is gripping at the dashboard, the other nearly cracking the plastic of the passenger door from how tightly he’s holding on.

He wants to take back his words from a few mornings ago.

The stupidest way to die in a zombie apocalypse would be to _fucking get in a car crash when there’s absolutely NO TRAFFIC TO SPEAK OF-_

“YURI, WATCH OUT!”

But Yuri just laughs, _like the beautiful maniac that he is_ , and swerves hard to avoid an abandoned jeep on the road. Their tank is large and not very agile, but it has a powerful engine and manages to dodge the obstacle by _mere centimeters_. Otabek thanks heavens for functioning seat belts and braces himself as Yuri floors it towards the next village, grinning like mad, taking far too much pleasure in being behind the wheel.

It had started with, “Hey, Yuri, do you know how to drive?”

And apparently it’s going to end with an Otabek-shaped blood smear on the asphalt, once Yuri _KILLS THEM BOTH_.

Otabek’s eyes are trained on the road, ears splitting with drums and electric guitar, hardcore and contagious - _fast_ and _loud_ , and-

He can’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun.

Yuri shouts lyrics in English, shifts gears way too quickly, but Otabek can’t stop smiling. He’s convinced they’re seconds away from certain death, but the hell with it - it’s _speed,_ it’s _rock_ and it’s fucking _Yuri_. Two things he loved even before the end of the world, and a third one he’s rapidly falling for.

Yuri lets go of the wheel to play an air guitar and Otabek’s hand shoots out on reflex, steadies the car before they tumble off into the fields.

“YOU DRIVE LIKE A FUCKING LUNATIC!” he yells over the music, dangerously steering them through bends as Yuri handles the pedals and shouts back,

“I KNOW, RIGHT!” Something catches his eye then - to the right, through Otabek’s passenger window, and Yuri points enthusiastically. “THERE, THERE, TWO WALKERS! LET’S GET ‘EM!”

The music explodes in a wild crescendo.

Otabek is still holding the wheel, Yuri not easing up on the gas, and their tank bounds off the smooth road and into the bumpy field. All their stuff rattles and slides in the back; Yuri reclaims the wheel and rams straight into a pair of zombies shuffling across - they splatter over the windshield, pieces of Otabek-doesn’t-even-want-to-know-what flying everywhere. He’s grateful that the windows are closed, that the wipers are still operational and he just shakes his head as they continue singing, turning back onto the road and zooming towards their next stop.

* * *

“And you’re sure you had a driver’s licence?” Otabek asks later, when they’re sitting in someone’s living room.

They had miraculously avoided wrapping the tank around a tree and arrived to a village tucked to the side of a hill, its houses scattered all over the gentle slope; one of those places where the nearest neighbor would’ve been at least half an hour uphill or downhill. They couldn’t find a grocery store - or anything resembling it - but at this point they have enough supplies to last them a week without restocking if need be; they’re not worried.

Yuri smirks from under the cat-eared hat _and_ the hoodie of his tiger-printed jacket pulled over it. (Seriously, his fashion taste is appalling, and yet, somehow, it’s another thing Otabek finds endearing.)

Yuri picks up his phone - which is once again lighting up their dinner time - and fiddles with it before he turns it to Otabek.

It’s a picture of him driving - a small Ford sign imprinted in the center of his steering wheel - and the background is blurry on the other side of the car windows. Yuri’s hair is in a ponytail and he’s wearing ray bans, looking out onto the road. Intense sunlight pours through the windshield, but he’s wearing a winter jacket, with faux fur lining around the hoodie.

Otabek leans back on his side of the sofa, keeping his expression neutral. “So, you drove a car somewhere. Still doesn’t mean you had a licence.”

Yuri scowls, swipes a few times over the screen and shows another picture. It’s clearly from the same day, same trip, but now he’s standing next to a sign in a foreign language - Otabek only recognizes the word _Helsinki_.

“I drove to Finland,” Yuri says, looking back at the phone. “It was a nice day for a field trip.”

Well, he definitely needed a licence to drive across borders. Otabek takes a swig of his apple juice and considers the idea of Yuri travelling, like normal people used to. He’d obviously gone with someone, the person who was taking pictures.

Otabek wonders if it would be just as fun to go on a field trip with Yuri which _didn’t_ involve killing mindless, bloodthirsty creatures on a daily basis.

He has a feeling it would be.

Yuri is still swiping through his phone gallery on the other end of the sofa, his legs up and boots almost touching Otabek’s thigh - when there’s a faint scratching sound.

In the deafening silence it seems as loud as nails screeching against a blackboard, and they both freeze. Yuri looks up over his phone at Otabek; they understand each other perfectly.

Without a word - carefully - they get up and collect their weapons which they’d left lying around the room. Their flashlight is obvious from outside, but Yuri leaves it on the sofa, not to draw attention to their movement.

Otabek is sure all of the windows and doors to the little house are closed and locked. He is also sure that walkers don’t know how to get in. They move more freely - and more quickly - during the night, but the darkness doesn’t magically bestow them with lock-picking powers.

But the scratching noise persists, coming from the front door. Yuri peers through the living room curtains, but shrugs, not seeing anything.

If it’s someone who wants to get in, they’d have already done it. It’s not hard to break a window - even to break down the door - if someone’s determined enough.

But Otabek raises his crossbow and aims it at the door anyway, ready to put an arrow through whoever’s head is on the other side. Yuri has his machete in one hand, the other on the door chain. He meets Otabek’s gaze, and lifts three fingers to start counting down.

Two fingers… One.

In one fluid motion Yuri unlocks the door and yanks it open - Otabek’s grip on the crossbow tightens -

Only there’s no one there. A chilling breeze and darkness beyond the threshold.

Silence.

Otabek’s just about to say how, if living in a zombie apocalypse wasn’t enough, now they’re stars of their very own horror movie - when Yuri gasps.

It’s a millisecond where Otabek thinks he’s been hurt somehow, but Yuri’s face lights up, eyes wide and brilliant in the night, looking down-

“KITTY!” he whisper-shouts, shuts the front door and pulls the chain back on before he crouches-

Holy hell, it _is_ a kitty. Otabek can’t hold back a chuckle as he lowers the crossbow and stares at a slim, orange tabby, with muddy paws and dusty fur; she’s obviously what had been scratching at the door to get inside, and is now rubbing her face all over Yuri’s knees.

To Otabek’s skipping heart Yuri starts whispering ridiculous things to her, coos and nicknames, running his fingers over her matted coat; looking so delighted, so earnestly happy to see this tiny creature...

Otabek turns around and marches back to the living room, to breathe in and subdue his fondness; his urge to also pet the cat, and watch Yuri fawn over her.

“Are you hungry, kitty? I bet you are, I bet you a~re.”

Before Otabek can saying anything about sharing food that’s already hard enough to get, Yuri is already rummaging through his bag, pulling out a piece of salami and giving it to the cat. Her purrs rumble all around the small space.

“We have some water from the well, right?”

“Yuri-”

“What? Look at her!” Yuri gestures to the kitty having her dinner on the sofa, right where Otabek had been sitting. “She needs a bath!”

“After we leave she’s just going to get dirty again.”

“So, we also don’t have to wash up because we’re just going to stink again? Perfect fucking logic.”

Good point. Otabek looks at Yuri, and Yuri levels him with such a hard glare that Otabek feels it could slice through concrete.

He gives in.

“Okay,” Otabek sighs. “What do you need me to do?”

* * *

As far as evenings during a zombie apocalypse go, it’s an unexpectedly pleasant one.

The cat - Kaya, as Yuri named her - surprisingly has no objections to being washed. She sits poised next to the bucket of water from the well and endures Yuri and Otabek gently trying to untangle the balls of mud from her fur, to rub off the dirt with wet rags. They’re lucky she’s a shorthair, otherwise this would’ve been a nightmare. (Though Otabek doesn’t doubt that Yuri would nevertheless insist on doing the same.)

She’s not hurt anywhere, or bleeding, and seems well-fed considering everything. It has become clear to Otabek almost right from the start that walkers aren’t interested in animals; not for food, not for spreading the disease - the virus only affects people.

The perfect example of humanity crumbling in on itself.

Kaya must have lived off her own hunting, and, with how trusting she is to humans, she must be used to them. Maybe this very house had been her home, once upon a time. It made sense, with the way she wanted to get in when she’d heard people inside.

They dry her off the best they can, and Yuri smuggles a few more pieces of salami to her, as well as half a bottle of water in a bowl he finds in the kitchenette, when he thinks Otabek isn’t paying attention. (Otabek can’t hold it against him. If he were alone, he’d be doing the same thing.)

There’s only one bedroom in the house, with a large bed, but they’re used to sleeping next to each other by now; in the last few houses they’ve been in, they’ve chosen to sleep in the same bed regardless of having other options, for warmth.

They change into layers of sweatshirts and sweatpants - two pairs of thick socks each - and slip under the piles of blankets.

It’s barely a minute before Otabek feels one corner of his covers moving; a stealthy, small shape sneaks underneath and purrs her way towards the middle, where Kaya curls in a tight ball against Otabek’s stomach. He lays a hand on her back and slowly pets, feeling her still-damp fur and the vibrations of her happiness.

“I had a cat,” Yuri says suddenly. He’s right next to Otabek, looking up at the ceiling, his profile graceful in the white glow of the flashlight. “Shapka.”

Otabek snorts. “You named her after the fur cap?”

Yuri shoots him a glare, but reaches for his phone. He swipes through it and then shows a picture of the largest, fluffiest feline Otabek has ever seen. Her luscious coat is white and silver-tipped, like a lion’s mane around her neck and chest; her face is dark and her cool gaze emerald green. She’s lounging on a sofa, very much unimpressed at having her picture taken.

Compared to the plain, ginger Kaya Otabek is petting under his blankets, this cat is _regal._

“She’s beautiful,” Otabek says honestly. _Just like you._

Yuri smiles. “Yeah, she…” But the smile falters as he slides to the next picture. “...was.”

In this one Yuri is holding Shapka up, her long body reaching down almost to his knees, and even though his face is buried in the fur of her neck, she seems equally unmoved.

“Walkers don’t bother animals,” Otabek says, in an effort to draw out the smile again.

“I know,” Yuri replies, but the sadness doesn’t dissipate.

Otabek gets it. Yuri had probably asked someone to take care of Shapka while he was in his hometown; who knows what happened to that person, if Shapka ever made it out of Yuri’s home in St. Petersburg...

Yuri switches off the light on his phone and locks the screen, encasing the room in pitch black. He turns towards Otabek, and in the next moment something else is moving under the covers - Yuri’s hand finds Kaya as well, and he strokes her head, her purring rising in volume.

“Good night, Yuri,” Otabek whispers.

“‘Night, Otabek.”

But neither fall asleep right away. Kaya’s presence provides a tranquility Otabek hasn’t felt in a long while, and he suspects neither has Yuri. She’s serene and perfectly content between the two of them, enjoying the attention, while Otabek in turn savors how close Yuri’s hand is; how with each rub between Kaya’s ears he feels ghosting of Yuri’s fingertips against his own, and the responding flutter of his heart.

It takes a monstrous effort to leap; to push through the screaming in his head of how wrong this is, how reckless and _dumb_ \- on too many levels to count - but Otabek does it anyway. Slowly he reaches over that one centimeter over Kaya’s shoulder blades and brushes his fingers over Yuri’s.

Yuri pauses, but doesn’t withdraw his hand. Doesn’t move, or let out a sound.

It encourages Otabek to carefully intertwine their fingers, just a little bit, and rest them on Kaya. His heart is dead set on bursting out of his chest, and he can’t focus on anything but how cold Yuri’s hand is, and yet how soft, how-

A quiet sniff rustles in the darkness and Otabek freezes - _what the fuck is he doing._

He shouldn’t have done this; shouldn’t have tried to touch Yuri without any previous warning. Yuri must be angry, or confused; maybe doesn’t want to say how uncomfortable this is making him- Otabek _can’t see him_ even though his eyes are wide open and Yuri is right there beside him-

He moves to pull back his hand, but Yuri doesn’t let him. His hold tightens around Otabek’s fingers, a lot, in a clear sign of _don’t let go._

Otabek can't remember how to breathe. He wants to say something, _anything,_ wants to whisper Yuri’s name, ask him if this is okay, if he’s sure _,_ but he also doesn’t want to ruin it, whatever this is.

So he simply squeezes Yuri’s hand in return; Yuri relaxes finally, his thumb back to stroking Kaya’s fur, the rest of his fingers laced with Otabek’s.

It’s a devastatingly safe feeling - to fall asleep like this; holding Yuri’s hand, with a lovely cat purring between them.

* * *

Yuri wants to stay in the hillside village for a couple of more days.

“It’s because of the cat, isn’t it?” Otabek asks, smirking.

Yuri assumes an unaffected expression. “It’s because we could use a break,” he says, hanging a line of rope through the middle of the small living room, for somewhere to dry the clothes they washed in shampoo and well water. “And her name’s Kaya.”

“There are literally no stores here, of any kind. We can’t stay long.”

“We can raid other houses.”

Otabek considers this. Kaya comes closer to the plastic basket with their wet clothes and curiously sniffs at it, purring when Otabek runs his hand over her head and back.

They won’t find much, even if they inspect each and every house in a five kilometer radius. At best they’d still have to leave in no more than three days.

“Okay,” he says in the end. Partially because it’s becoming hard for him to say _no_ to Yuri, and partially because they really could use a break - especially if it’s one with a pet. It’s been a while since they last stayed in one place for longer than a night.

Sunlight breaks through the heavy clouds as they leave the tiny house - letting Kaya out until they return - and head for the nearest neighbor, a longer walk up the hill and to the left.

It’s fun. It’s what they’re used to; alertness, wariness until they inspect the house and surrounding lot, until they get rid of any walkers that might lurk about. (And make sure no humans dwell on the property.)

Then it’s curiosity, a search for food and useful tools. Conversation, and playfulness, and Yuri finding a sturdy, heavy axe in the back shed.

“You don’t need that,” Otabek says, already seeing how Yuri perks up at the sharp weapon.

“Says who? You carry a crossbow _and_ a knife!” Yuri supports himself with a foot on the log where the axe had been jammed in and pulls it out.

“Because one is long-range and one isn’t. There’s not much sense in carrying two blades.”

“I can learn to throw the axe.”

Otabek doesn’t doubt that. “But then you’d have to get it back each time.”

“We always take back your arrows.”

“I have spares in case we can’t.” He still hasn’t replaced the two he lost in that one zombie infested house. He should find more. Or fashion some out of branches, if he can.

Yuri weighs his options for a moment, considering the axe, and finally looks at Otabek. “Then you teach me how to use the crossbow,” he says, in a tone that’s almost daring Otabek to refuse.

“Okay,” Otabek replies without a second thought. After all, he said he would, some time ago.

“Okay.” Yuri nods. “But I’m taking the axe anyway.” And with that he marches past Otabek and out of the shed, leaving Otabek smiling to himself; fuck it, he likes Yuri’s stubbornness.

He might even be a little in love with it.

There isn’t much science to firing a crossbow. Even less when Otabek doesn’t know what any of the parts are officially called, or perhaps even how to handle it properly. He just knows what works for him, so he tries teaching Yuri that.

He stands beside Yuri and instructs him how to hold the weapon, how to lean it against his shoulder and where to look to aim. He’s close, but he doesn’t reach out, choosing to correct with words only; he’s not entirely sure where they stand on personal space after the hand holding from last night, and since Yuri hasn't mentioned it, he doesn’t want to make it awkward.

Yuri has good posture - not that Otabek doubted it - and the system of pulling back the string and loading an arrow is simple enough. It’s the steadiness and the aim Yuri needs to work on, to make sure he actually _hits_ the target, and to maintain his stance through the recoil.

Then Otabek steps back to oversee how Yuri fires arrows at a tree in the backyard; he misses the first few times, always grumpily stomping to retrieve the arrow and blowing strands of hair away from his face.

But he doesn’t give up. Doesn’t complain, save for the muttered curses. And with the bright sunlight peeking through the clouds, bathing his hair braid in bright gold, and the raw concentration on his face as he squints at the tree to once again pull the trigger - well, Otabek has a hard time looking away.

Eventually, though, he leaves Yuri to practice on his own, and heads for the house, to see what he can find.

The kitchen doesn’t yield anything special - not, at least, until Otabek spots a small glass jar on a shelf, apple-shaped and filled with something vividly red. At first he thinks it’s just more tomato juice, but when he unscrews the square-patterned lid and takes a whiff - _oh_.

Oh, this will make Yuri stupidly happy. And by extension Otabek, too.

He hides it in the bag slung over his shoulder and steps out just in time to see Yuri’s arrow zoom right into the center of the tree bark. Yuri erupts into ecstatic laughter, raises his arms in triumph and Otabek smiles wide, feeling irrationally at ease.

* * *

“I think I got it,” Yuri says that evening, his mouth full of pickled tomatoes. “On stationary targets, anyway. Gonna have to practice more on moving ones.”

“Sure,” Otabek agrees. He’s finishing off his own bag of chips and dried sausage that’s starting to smell funny - he should probably throw it away. “You can try that tomorrow, on whatever walkers we run into.”

“Fuck yeah,” Yuri says, looking pleased with himself. Kaya is sitting on the sofa between them, green eyes unblinking at the piece of salami Yuri’s bringing up to his mouth. “You had a pigeon for lunch!” he tells her accusingly. “I saw you bring in one of its legs on the front porch. You’re not hungry.”

Otabek chuckles as Kaya licks her whiskers, anticipating a treat. “You’re spoiling her. She knows you’ll give in, sooner or later.”

Yuri just huffs and does his best to ignore her hungry look.

“Oh, yeah.” Otabek dusts off his hands, swallowing the last mouthful of his pitiful dinner, and reaches inside his bag for the jar he’d taken earlier. “Here. I found this in the first house we broke into.”

Yuri frowns as he takes it. “Tomato juice? Um, thanks but I don’t real-” He cuts himself off when he opens it. “Oh,” he says; breathes it out, so _soft_ and surprised. When he looks up, his gaze is so full of _wonder_.

“Otabek…” Yuri whispers, stunned, and it lances right through Otabek’s heart.

Otabek smiles, fighting the urge to bridge the short distance over the cat and brush his knuckles over Yuri’s cheek. “Strawberry jam,” he says.

“You…” Yuri looks down at the jar again, like he doesn’t believe it’s real. “You found strawberry jam. For me.”

“Well, you were pretty vocal about how much you like all things strawberry, so…”

Yuri immediately pushes away the food he’d been eating until then (Kaya pounces on his remaining salami), wipes his right hand on his leggings and unceremoniously shoves two finger into the jam. He scoops up the red jelly right into his mouth.

Otabek’s brain short-circuits, because the sound that escapes Yuri’s throat is _obscene._

Yuri moans, _literally moans_ around his fingers; closes his eyes and sucks them clean, and Otabek shifts in his seat. He tears his gaze away and down to his own food that he has to pack, a little out of breath.

“Fuck me, this is amazing,” Yuri mumbles around another finger-scoop. “So sweet and so… _strawberry._ ”

Otabek nods. He’s hot under the collar, despite the chill in the house, and this might’ve, in retrospect, not been such a good idea.

It gets worse when Yuri turns to him and offers one finger covered with jam to Otabek. “You gotta try it. It’s delicious.”

“I…” Otabek’s mouth is dry. He looks at Yuri’s long, elegant finger and then at his expectant face - it’s clear that Yuri doesn’t see anything wrong with this, or suggestive, or even remotely odd. He just nudges the finger at Otabek, urging him to try.

Otabek really shouldn’t.

And yet he finds himself gently wrapping his own hand around Yuri’s wrist, guiding it to his mouth. Slowly, with heat creeping up his neck, Otabek’s lips close around Yuri’s finger, tasting the sweetness, a touch of fruity sourness.

“Um.” Yuri’s eyes are suddenly round, like he’s just realized what’s happening. Though he doesn’t make an attempt to withdraw his hand, just stares at where Otabek lightly sucks on his finger, swallowing every last drop of the jam, and lets go.

“It’s good,” Otabek whispers, heart hammering out of control, his jeans too tight in the front.

“Yeah?” Yuri whispers back, now a rosy tint high on his cheekbones.

“Yeah. Sweet.”

“Right.” Yuri gazes down at the jar, looking shaken; Otabek doesn’t want to think of how this may have affected him. Doesn’t want to hope that, maybe, Yuri sees him the same way he does him, that maybe Yuri likes him… “Thank you,” Yuri says, then screws the jar lid back on with unsteady fingers.

“You’re welcome.”

Otabek stands up, because he doesn’t trust himself so close to Yuri right now. He needs to put some distance between them, to clear his head, so he walks into the kitchen, pretends to look for his water and adjusts his jeans for a touch of relief.

Fucking hell.

* * *

In all honesty, he has no idea what he’s doing.

It’s well into the night; Kaya is pressed into Otabek’s side, elongated from his shoulder to hip, and he listens to Yuri’s soft, steady breathing next to them in the bed.

He knows he wants Yuri. All of him; his wit, his humor, frustration and anger, his hard-edged determination. But he also wants his closeness, touch, his warmth... To hold his hand again, to taste Yuri’s finger once more, taste his lips, his skin...

He wants to kiss Yuri. Tell him that he’s amazing and beautiful and the most incredible person Otabek’s ever met. One he feels inexplicably comfortable with, despite the short amount of time - barely two months - that they’ve known each other; despite the circumstances.

If it were a normal world, Otabek wouldn’t have any qualms about his feelings. About the next step.

He’d ask Yuri out, plain and simple. He’d take him for a ride on his bike, to dinner, and for a walk somewhere romantic afterwards. With a sunset, maybe, or on a moonlit promenade. He’d kiss him, slow and tender, and he’d revel in Yuri’s blush and maybe a half-hearted shove to Otabek’s chest in return.

But Otabek also knows that - in a normal world - he’d never get to meet Yuri.

In _this_ world, where they don’t know if they’ll live through tomorrow, if they’ll have food or water next week - where they can’t afford to be separated, not when banding together had been so useful for both of them…

Otabek can’t risk a rift between them with anything as stupid as a crush. (Though he knows he’s way past the point of simply crushing on Yuri.)

He lets out a sigh and turns on his side, towards Yuri, even though he can’t see him without any light. Kaya starts purring at the movement again, nestled in Otabek’s sweatshirt and under the blankets.

He can’t say anything. Can’t _do_ anything. He doesn’t want to lose what he already has with Yuri.

* * *

Once again he wakes up by getting socked in the face.  
  
“For fuck’s sake, Yuri, gonna poke my eye out one… day...” Otabek’s whispered complaint fades out when Yuri flinches again, lets out a whimper in his sleep. “Yuri?”

Otabek grabs Yuri’s phone that’s between their pillows and switches on the light - Yuri’s face is pained, hair damp and clinging to his sweaty forehead and his hands are restless - moving, reaching for something in his dreams.

His nightmare.

“Yuri,” Otabek says, louder. He scoots closer - Kaya had abandoned her spot in the middle of the bed - and lays a gentle hand on Yuri’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Yuri just lets out another murmur, distressed. Otabek shakes him a little.

“Yuri. Wake. Up.”

Yuri’s lips move soundlessly, a thin line between his furrowed brows.

“Yuri!” Otabek raises his voice and shakes him harder, and Yuri’s eyes finally shoot open.

He’s in a panic - breathless - obviously unaware of where he is and what’s going on; his hands clutch at Otabek’s arms, grip his sweatshirt like Otabek is a lifeline, a tether to reality.

“Otabek--” he pants, trembling, hair all over his pillow.

“It’s okay, hey… It’s okay,” Otabek whispers, looking into his wild eyes. “It was just a nightmare. You’re okay.”

And Yuri tries to calm down; Otabek sees the effort, but he’s still holding on, still shaking and unable to settle his breathing. His gaze darts around the room like he’s expecting demons to creep out of the dark.

Otabek thinks it’s best to give him space, so he goes to lie back down on his side of the bed - but Yuri’s grip on his clothes is tight, not letting go. Tighter, even. Otabek looks at him, surprised; Yuri’s eyes are clear in the weak glow of the phone light, wide and almost… pleading.

Though he doesn’t say a word.

Otabek hesitates for a brief moment - in which his heart wins out over his reasoning - and he lowers himself right beside Yuri. He wraps an arm around Yuri’s shoulders and lets Yuri tuck his head under Otabek's chin. Lets him keep his fistfuls of Otabek’s sweatshirt, and press closer like Otabek’s the only comfort he has.

Which he just might be.

Yuri is warm, so very _warm_ in his arms, his trembling body fitted into Otabek's; his hair smells fresh like winter, god, Otabek just wants to breathe him in, to keep him close like this for as long as he can...

Nothing more; no words, no touches… Just, this. This is all he needs.

He can’t remember the last time he hugged someone, let alone held them, shared a bed with them - a lifetime ago, when it meant something different, something far less important… It feels like Otabek’s entire body only now relaxed; like he’d been high-strung and constricted for over half a year and only now he’d fully unwound, sank into the pillows and the blankets...

“I have nightmares, too,” Otabek forces himself to whisper, just to keep his wits about him. Just to focus on something other than Yuri’s warm breath in the collar of his hoodie. “Sometimes.”

He notices a slight release of tension in Yuri’s shoulders, a smoother exhale.

“About what?” Yuri asks hoarsely.

“Walkers from the basement. My friends. Family,” Otabek says honestly. Then, “Your driving.”

It works - Yuri snorts, the amusement breezing over Otabek’s skin; he wonders how it would feel if Yuri laughed in his arms.

“Not my fault that you drive like a little old lady,” Yuri says.

“I do not,” Otabek replies, a hint of hurt in his tone. He does _not_. He doesn’t drive like a crazy person, but he hardly drives like a little old lady.

“A little old man, then?” Yuri chuckles, and maybe it’s a jab on how Otabek is slightly shorter than Yuri, but it’s also all Otabek can do not to plant a kiss on the crown of that blond head.

“With your driving we would’ve burned through all the fuel in a matter of hours,” he grumbles.

“With _your_ driving we’ll never make it out of Russia.”

It’s a joke, but it’s also…  
  
_We’ll never make it._

A bit too close to home.

Otabek feels Yuri’s smile slip away, and he pulls him in a bit more, disguising it as shifting to accommodate both of them on the bed.

“I miss music,” he says, after a couple of silent moments. Yuri’s better now, no longer shaking, and almost peaceful, snuggled into Otabek.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is my shitload of music not up to your standards, DJ Otabek?” is Yuri’s sarcastic response, to which they both smile again.

“No, I mean… I used to play,” Otabek says. “My mother was a piano teacher.” Entire days, weeks, tied together with gentle piano notes, lingering all throughout his family home. “Though in high school I switched to cello. Liked it better.” Strings coming to life under the pads of his fingers, the bow slicing a deep sound, rich and resonating… “Hm.” Otabek smiles a little, nostalgic. “Kind of set it aside in uni. Didn’t think I’d… never play again.”

He misses the pull of the music, the melody enveloping him completely… Getting lost in it. Playing with his mother.

Otabek thinks he feels Yuri’s hands loosen, flatten over his chest in a calming kind of gesture.

“I miss my grandpa,” Yuri says quietly.

It’s the first time he’s mentioned family, someone from his life, and he doesn’t elaborate, but Otabek doesn’t need him to. He dips his head and presses his lips to Yuri’s hair; not a kiss, but a slight reassurance all the same.

They stay embraced like that until they both drift off to sleep, forgetting to turn off the light.

* * *

“We can’t take her with us,” Otabek says.

“I know,” Yuri replies. He hadn’t even suggested it, but by the way he’s holding Kaya close, the side of his face pressed into her orange fur, and the way she’s purring loud in the foggy morning in front of the house, it’s clear they’re both reluctant to separate.

“She’ll be fine.” Otabek scratches gently at Kaya’s neck. “She survived for half a year on her own, and we’re leaving the house unlocked for her to sleep in when it gets too cold.” They had piled up all the sheets and blankets they found of whoever had lived there, and made a nice warm nest for the cat to curl up in.

“Yeah.” Yuri nods. With one last smile at her - tinged with sadness - he lowers Kaya to the ground and stands beside Otabek.

They take in the small house, the shabby woodwork of the front porch, and the old-fashioned, yellowed curtains over the front windows.

Contrary to any other time, it’s bittersweet to Otabek, leaving this place. He knows that rationally it’s their only option for survival, and he never planned to spend his life here or anything, but it represents a suspended moment, when he and Yuri practically lived together in one spot. When he got to know more of Yuri, got close to him, held him and… was happy. For just that second.

“We should go. We need to find a store,” he says quietly. They have the jam, a bottle of vodka they might feel like drinking some other time, and some smoked meat from the houses they raided; they need more water, more shaving cream if they can find it. Other food.

Yuri turns without protest, heads for the car, and the last thing Otabek sees of the house is Kaya licking her front paw on the porch, seemingly already over the fact that she’s once again alone.

* * *

 When the first mellow notes filter through the car speakers, Otabek almost steers right off the road. He throws a startled look at Yuri. It’s a soft melody, subdued, so different than the music they’d listened to so far - usually deafening rock, dance, even trap, which Otabek particularly enjoyed.

But this is a poetic ease of piano keys, a gentle flow, building into a livelier, romantic sound.

And Otabek recognizes it. He knows it, has heard it many times, knows how to play it, _oh_ , it reminds him of-

“You said you missed music,” Yuri mumbles, glaring at the dashboard like someone had forced him at gunpoint to put on the song. “Like, the music you played. I don’t have a fucking _piano_ , but I do have this.”

-of _home_.

Otabek watches the road, but clearly pictures the grand piano in the spacious, bright living room of his family house, his mother behind it, and the content smile on her face while she played…

“Yiruma,” Otabek names the South Korean composer. “ _River flows in you._ It was my mother’s favorite.”

His little sister’s, too. A short composition which spoke of love, tenderness, and pure, undiluted beauty.

“It was good for warming up,” Yuri says with a shrug.

Of course, piano music frequently accompanied ballet practices.

The song bleeds into another one, of a different composer but instrumental all the same, and Otabek realizes it’s an entire playlist of classical music - piano, violin, orchestra… Some of it he has never heard before, while some are as familiar to him as the lines of his palm.

Warmth curls around Otabek’s heart, makes him smile, because Yuri just gave him his equivalent of strawberry jam. He’s acting like it’s no big deal, his face half-concealed with his tiger-printed hood and arms crossed, but he’d heard what Otabek told him the night before, wanted to do something about it…

It’s unfair how hopeful Otabek feels, how… desperately cared for, even with that tiny gesture.

“Thank you,” he says, not looking away from the road.

Yuri huffs. “Whatever.” He shifts in his seat, props his feet up on the dashboard. Then, “You’re welcome.”

Otabek’s smile widens.

They drive until mid-morning, Otabek enjoying the music and Yuri playing a game on his phone, when Yuri asks,

“Do you think there’s a place without walkers?”

“Maybe,” Otabek says. He hadn’t thought about it. “Maybe there’s a climate not suitable for them.”

“Maybe the virus didn’t spread everywhere?”

Otabek doubts it; as far as he could tell from the media, every corner of the world felt the threat of the virus. They thought it was containable, at first.

“Maybe there’s like an island without it. In an ocean somewhere,” Yuri continues, thumbs tapping the phone screen. “Like Hawaii?”

“Maybe.”

“And even if there was an island _with_ walkers, I figure it’d be easy enough to get rid of all of them, and just… live there.”

Otabek tries not to linger on the notion that Yuri is thinking about them still being together in the future. Finding a place to settle down together.

“What about food? Water?” he asks Yuri.

“We’d grow our own stuff. Find some chickens, cows. Pigs. Dig a well.”

“Hm. Sounds…” Simple, practical and stationary; as close to a normal life as they will probably ever get. “...good.”

But Otabek doesn’t dare hope for anything like it.

It’s around lunchtime when they pass a billboard with a peeling picture of a large building complex up ahead - a shopping mall.

“We can find stuff we need there,” Yuri says.

Otabek’s not so sure. It’s true that a place like a shopping center of that size would be abundant in supplies, but it’s also a huge unknown territory. If he disregards the possibility of dozens, if not hundreds of walkers milling about - there’s also the very real danger of other humans having the same idea they do, stopping there to restock. Perhaps even living there.

“We don’t have to go through all of it,” Yuri says, as though he's reading Otabek's mind. “Just the supermarket. Every mall has one.”

A big one, yes. It might not be a bad idea to at least take a look, but Otabek makes sure to go through as many precautions as he can think of before they set foot into the store. He takes the next exit for the mall, and circles the large area three times, looking for any signs of life.

There are dozens of cars in the parking lot, but none look like they’ve arrived recently. Some have their doors gaping open, all of them are weathered with the passing of seasons, and there’s even a car pile-up near one of the parking lot exits - by the body-shaped silhouettes through the car windows, not all of the passengers had made it.

Otabek easily runs over a handful of walkers - with Yuri snickering beside him at each _splat!_ \- but their numbers are far from overwhelming.

Well. If nothing else, they can at least stop to siphon fuel for their canisters from these vehicles.

He parks the car close to the supermarket entrance on the ground floor, behind a stocky building with a lingerie shop - near enough, but hidden from plain sight. Their presence won’t be immediately obvious if anyone decides to join them.

The store is the size of a soccer field, with countless aisles, refrigerators, shelves… Still well-stocked with product, it seems, though much of it is scattered on the floor. With the electricity gone, there’s only the dim daylight through a glass wall at the front to help with visibility.

It’s already making Otabek nervous - such poorly lit, vast open space… He can think of a variety of scenarios of how this plays out - they get separated and lost in the maze and take too long to get back to the car; they get overrun by walkers and/or killed by other humans who might be here-

“Let’s just find what we need and get out of here,” he says, keeping a firm grip on his crossbow.

Yuri nods, but doesn’t look like he shares Otabek’s dread. He starts first, machete in hand, and slowly walks down the aisle closest to them, inspecting the packages on the shelves and tiptoeing around those on the floor much like a regular, unhurried shopper would.

“Water,” Otabek says quietly, casting an impatient glance at the assortment of boxes. “That’s not water.”

Yuri snorts. “Really now? This white grainy thing that some people call rice is _not_ water? I had no fucking idea.”

“This is dangerous. We shouldn’t waste time.”

Yuri lets out a dramatic sigh, and picks up the pace. “Fine. Water. Shaving cream. Edible things.”

But in the next moment he stops, stills - there’s characteristic growling from one aisle over, drag of feet across the floor, slide of scattered things - Otabek finds himself grateful for the otherwise perfect quiet of the space.

He and Yuri round the corner into the section with cleaning products and take out two walkers without a problem, before they continue deeper between the shelves.

“See?” Yuri says, shaking off droplets of dark ooze from his machete. “There aren’t many of them.”

“So far.”

But, as they weave through the store, it becomes obvious that Yuri is right - there aren’t many walkers. They smell a few dead bodies before they see them - a stench so sharp, Otabek’s eyes water - and avoid their location in a wide circle (as well as the fresh produce and meat areas, where everything has been rotting for months now); they easily kill four more walkers along the way. None take them by surprise.

Yuri picks out salty crackers, chips, pickled vegetables and canned fruit, adding them one by one to the bag slung around Otabek’s shoulder. They find bottled water and load up on that, too.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to get a haircut?” Yuri asks, pausing in front of an array of hair clippers.

“Those are electric.”

“We can also find batteries.” Yuri takes a box and inspects the writing on it, as if it’s at all important what features the gadget has or how good it is.

“We don’t have time for that.”

“Otabek.” Yuri’s serious tone makes Otabek look up, into his stern blue eyes. “We have been here for an hour, at least,” Yuri says. “There is no sign of hidden walkers; no other people. I think we can spare at least a couple of more minutes to find batteries for one of these. We probably won’t get another opportunity.”

“So when I want another haircut in a couple of months, we’ll have to hunt for more batteries?”

“We’ll think about that then!”

“That’s-” Otabek cuts himself off, exhaling sharply. Exasperatedly.

He hates this. Hates this day-to-day living, this uncertainty, whether or not they’ll be _alive_ in a couple of months, let alone where they will be or if they’ll find batteries for some godforsaken electric razor-

“Find one you like.” Yuri shoves the box into Otabek’s chest and Otabek barely catches it one-handed and stops it from falling and making a loud noise. “I’ll go get batteries and shaving cream. Meet you back here.”

“No, Yuri, we shouldn’t separa-”

“This isn’t my first trip to a store, remember?” Yuri pins Otabek with a glare. “Before you came along I had my entire hometown to roam in. And I’m armed.” He gestures with his blade. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Yuri turns on his heel and marches away, leaving Otabek with the box of hair clippers, wondering how in the hell has he found himself in this situation, powerless against this one particular blond young man. Fuck.

Without any better ideas, he scans the shelf in front of him, and randomly picks out a box, of what he hopes is a smaller sized razor. There’s no sense in carrying the whole package, so he tears into it, takes the gadget out and leaves the rest on the littered floor.

Then he waits. He can’t hear anything, which on one hand is a good sign, since no walkers - but on the other, it means that Yuri isn’t close; which sets Otabek on edge. The whole idea of coming here was reckless in the first place, and he regrets allowing it. Regrets not listening to his instincts and letting Yuri talk him into it.

Dammit.

He runs his fingers through his hair - okay, so maybe it wouldn’t be the _worst_ idea, having something to cut it with - when the entire supermarket echoes with a _CLANG!_ and a muffled scream.

Otabek’s heart stops beating-

-for just a second, before his fight or flight reflexes kick in. He raises his crossbow to eye level and - almost without conscious thought - starts in the direction the noise came from, as silently and quickly as he can.

He has no idea what the fuck is going on; the rush of adrenaline thunders in his ears, makes him tense, hyper-aware-

He steps over and around the fallen merchandise, and thinks fast:  
  
_Option 1_ : walkers. Yuri is more than capable of disposing of them efficiently, and they’re far too loud in this dead silence to creep up on him.

 _Option 2_ : humans. Otabek hasn’t noticed anyone driving up to the store entrance, or sneaking inside, but that doesn’t mean they actually _couldn’t;_ the scream Otabek heard was muffled probably because somebody covered the mouth of whoever had screamed.

 _Yuri_ ; Otabek hopes like hell it wasn’t Yuri.

He can’t tell exactly where the noise came from - and there are no other sounds to help him - but Yuri had said he was going for batteries and shaving cream; the one aisle he’d need in this part of the store is the personal hygiene one, a little further up to Otabek’s right.

Otabek pauses, takes a moment to inhale - to listen for any movement - and turns into the aisle, finger on the trigger.

It’s empty. He walks down to the other end, and at first doesn’t notice anything suspicious - until he sees a dropped can of shaving cream, and something small-

Otabek picks up an elastic band, black with one plastic, tiger-printed bead; Yuri’s hair tie.

He swallows the scream before it escapes his throat.

All his life Otabek has been a calm person, practical and straightforward, dealing with his emotions quietly and in private. But now… now he barely stops himself from upending the entire shelf next to him - his hand squeezes the scrunchy so hard that the bead digs into his palm, _painfully_ \- a grounding point amidst the roaring of his mind.

It takes every bit of his considerable inner strength to stop the murderous rage - for that’s what it is, _murder_ \- rampaging through his veins; _he is going to_ **_kill_ ** _anyone who lays a hand on Yuri_.

Otabek forces himself to stop, to think, _fucking THINK ALTIN-_

He hadn’t heard a car driving off; no other sounds, no one screaming for help, which - his stomach does that agonizing lurch again - means that Yuri maybe _can’t-_

There’s no blood around him in the aisle. Whoever had taken him didn’t hurt him here.

In the grip of Otabek’s hand, the tiger-printed bead cracks in half-

-almost at the same time as something else loudly crashes in the store, towards the exit. A laugh rings out, and Otabek makes a mental note to jam his knife straight through the roof of whosever mouth that is.

He turns and heads for the sounds, which now hadn’t died down. Conversation, and more laughter, and yet Otabek doesn’t recognize Yuri’s voice - every fibre of his being hangs onto the hope that Yuri is still unharmed.

He sneaks up as close to the entrance doors as he dares, and stops in the shelter of a fallen shelf, angled against the one opposite it; he crouches, carefully, soundlessly sets down the bag of supplies, and now he sees what’s happening.

Sees three people - three _men_ \- large and dirty and unkempt. There's no sign of the distinctive red shirts with a white  _C_ painted across their chest which every member of the Salvation Brigade wears; they're obviously not a part of the deranged organization, thankfully. But Yuri…

Otabek clenches his jaw so tight that his teeth hurt.

Yuri has been forced to kneel. One of the men - the one with his stomach pouring over his belt - is holding his hands tightly behind his back, the others just standing there by the window. Watching. Having a good time.

Yuri’s struggling against the grip, but he’s slighter in build than any of them, and disarmed. He’s also muttering what Otabek can only assume are the most vicious of curses, but he’s not raising his voice.

He’s not calling for help.

It takes a puzzled second for Otabek to realize why - Yuri’s not shouting for Otabek because he doesn’t want these people to know that he’s not alone. He doesn’t want them to find Otabek.

Otabek’s mind takes too long to move on from that conclusion.

The long haired, skinny man cackles raspily at Yuri’s attempts to break free.

“Pretty little one, isn’t he?” He crouches in front of Yuri, reaches for his face - Otabek’s entire body screams for him to _STOP THIS_ \- and seems to want to brush the blond hair away; but Yuri jerks forward and sinks his teeth into the man’s hand. Long Hair yelps, barely managing to yank away from the bite; Otabek tastes bitter satisfaction when he sees blood dripping over the knuckles. Yuri spits on the floor at Long Hair's feet.

“Hah, feisty, too!” The Big One exclaims. He switches his hold of Yuri’s wrists to one hand and grabs a fistful of his hair with the other, tugging Yuri’s head back, exposing the long line of his pale throat.

But it wasn’t a smart decision, loosening the hold - Yuri twists, gets one arm free and elbows The Big One right in the gut, making him double over and let go of Yuri completely. Yuri jumps to his feet-

Which is when the third man, until then silent and watchful, charges towards him.

And when Otabek stands up from behind his cover, and without thinking - without even a second of hesitation - fires an arrow straight into the man’s chest.

For one frozen moment everyone’s attention turns to Otabek, and Otabek glares back over his crossbow; if Yuri had been angry and determined to fight his way free earlier, now his blue eyes are wide with - _fear._

Then the man with the arrow in his lungs lets out a wet gurgle and falls to his knees. Yuri shouts Otabek’s name, and what might’ve been a _RUN!_ if The Big One’s hand hadn’t cut him off - he grabs Yuri from behind again, keeps his mouth covered and one arm pinned to his back, twisting painfully; Yuri winces.

And Otabek hurries to fit another arrow to his crossbow, but he’s too slow - Long Hair pulls out a knife, short and gleaming in the cloudy day, and brings it to Yuri’s throat.

“Now, now,” he tsks, face contorted in rage. His fallen comrade twitches on the ground, blood trickling from his mouth and soaking up his clothes where the arrow is sticking out. “You’re gonna stop whatever you’re doing, or your pretty friend here‘s gonna lose his head.”

Fuck.

Otabek doesn’t move, halfway to loading his weapon. Yuri is firmly in The Big One’s grip, held back to his overflowing belly, and The Big One _grins_ , like he’s enjoying Yuri’s slender body against his own - Otabek will enjoy strangling him with his bare hands.

He can’t tell the exact emotion in Yuri’s gaze - anger, defiance, fear, maybe pleading - maybe a definite note of urging Otabek to save himself and leave him.

And Otabek will tear the entire shopping mall down to its cinder blocks before he considers doing that.

Long Hair forces out a smirk, revealing stained, rotting teeth. “Drop the weapon,” he says. Yuri flinches - Long Hair had pressed the knife closer into the delicate skin on his throat.

Otabek doesn’t have much time to think this through. If he doesn’t do as he’s told, they will kill Yuri on the spot. Especially since their friend had just given a final spasmic whimper and expired at their feet.

But if he drops the crossbow, they will _definitely_ kill Yuri, and him quickly after. He still has his knife tucked in the back of his jeans, but he guesses he won’t be able to hold up to both Long Hair and The Big One for any length of time - after all, Otabek’s never had any formal fight training.

He can’t let go of the weapon. But he also can’t risk getting Yuri killed.

He can’t do this alone.

In a split second he meets Yuri’s eyes - Otabek shifts the arrow he didn’t get to load; only a fraction, only for Yuri to notice - and Yuri's cold blue eyes flash with fire, with understanding.

_Fight._

_Fight with me, Yuri._

And then all chaos breaks loose.

Yuri lifts his feet off the ground, uses his boots to shove Long Hair away - the skinny man staggers backwards, slices a thin bloody line in Yuri’s neck before he drops the knife; The Big One momentarily loses balance, along with Yuri, but he doesn’t release him. Otabek finally slides his arrow into place, and aims at Long Hair - the sharp tip pierces the man’s thigh and he howls in pain.

“Yuri!”

Now is when Otabek drops the crossbow and lunges forward. With his heart in his throat he jumps over the fallen shelf, kicks away the products strewn about the floor - The Big One has his large hand over Yuri’s neck from behind, and Yuri’s thrashing, desperate to inhale-

Otabek takes out his knife and stabs The Big One beneath his ribcage, the blade slicing through flesh as easily as through warm butter - blood gushes over Otabek’s hands.

The Big One cries out and lets go of Yuri, who stumbles to the ground, hacking and gulping big breaths of air.

Otabek doesn’t relent. He twists the knife in The Big One’s side, angles it upward, taking sick pleasure in feeling the large body in front of him stiffen, hearing the whimpers - he _touched_ Yuri, this son of a bitch almost ended his life - Otabek wants to _end him_ -

And he gets no warning.

Yuri’s still on all fours, wheezing, and Otabek doesn’t see Long Hair coming - doesn’t realize he’d limped over with the arrow in his leg, picked up his dropped knife-

Not, at least, until Otabek gets pushed aside, and there’s a sudden, sharp, _burning_ pain near his hip; a pressure that makes him gasp, half in surprise and half because _it fucking hurts_.

But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Long Hair is in his face, cackling, and Otabek gets one punch to his jaw - when Long Hair stops. Completely goes still, right in front of him.

His watery eyes nearly bulge out of his skull, and then he collapses to the side, allowing Otabek a glimpse of an arrow deep between his shoulder blades.

Behind him, Yuri’s holding Otabek’s crossbow, still breathing with effort, red hand marks from attempted strangulation and a thin line of blood across his throat.

With an elegance Otabek will never match, Yuri loads another arrow - the last one in that quiver - and ends The Big One’s suffering, though the guy hadn’t moved after Otabek stabbed him.

And then it’s silent.

Calm. In stark contrast with Otabek’s still pounding heart.

“Otabek--” Yuri drops the crossbow, the sound loud and jarring, making Otabek blink, refocus. “ _Fuck,_ Otabek, you-” In two long strides he’s in front of Otabek, looking down at something, carefully reaching, but Otabek doesn’t know why the alarm, until-

“Oh.” There’s a knife sticking out of him. The sharp pressure from earlier - Long Hair had stabbed him.

A blood stain spreads on his shirt from the blade that’s not all the way in, in the lower left of Otabek’s abdomen. It hurts, but somehow Otabek thinks it should hurt _more_ \- he's never been stabbed before, but there's a knife inside him, he thinks dazedly, and all he feels is a slight burn, and maybe he should take it out.

His mind has trouble catching up with the current events.

With that sense of detachment, Otabek wraps a hand around the knife handle and pulls it out, the motion sending fresh waves of pain - more intense, _searing_ \- up his spine; Otabek falters. He drops the knife, exhales weakly and closes his eyes because the room took a spin, but Yuri is there to steady him.

“Otabek,” his voice is shaky in Otabek’s ear, but his presence is warm. “Can you walk?”

“I think… I think so.” Walking sounds simple enough.  

“Here.” A bundle of fabric - black and tiger printed - is shoved into Otabek’s bloody, trembling hands, pressing at where it hurts. “Keep pressure on it.”

Then Yuri steers him, gently gets him moving with an arm around his waist, out in the gloomy day and towards the car. Otabek grits his teeth against the pain with every step he takes, just on this side of tolerable, and sighs in relief when Yuri opens the back door and helps him climb in.

“I’ll be right back,” Yuri says, and before Otabek can object, slams the door shut with too much force, leaving him in the near-darkness of the car.

Okay. So.

He might be dying.

The realization doesn’t have as much impact as Otabek would’ve expected it to.

He doesn’t _feel_ like he’s dying. Injured and in pain, sure, but not like he’s in a life-threatening condition.

He looks down at his wound, only now recognizing the black and tiger-printed fabric as Yuri’s jacket; _shit_ , he’d taken off his cherished jacket to help Otabek stop the bleeding - and yeah, okay, there’s even more blood now. He can’t see how wide or how deep the cut is; he’s still not in too much pain, but maybe that’s because of the adrenaline.

Maybe when it wears off it _will_ feel like he is dying.

He hopes Yuri comes back before that happens.

Then the door of the car opens again, and Yuri throws in a ridiculous amount of stuff; their supply bag - looking heavier than Otabek remembers it - the crossbow, arrows, his own machete, a myriad of other things that Otabek can’t discern. Yuri doesn’t meet Otabek’s eyes, but his jaw is set, and he once again slams the door like it personally offended him.

Yuri climbs in the driver’s seat, where Otabek can’t see him, and in the next moment the car moves in reverse with a screech of tires, and finally speeds away.

* * *

Otabek doesn’t know how long they drive like that. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.

He checks on his cut, and each time he thinks it’s bleeding less, but he can’t be sure without more light. The pain is slowly increasing, radiating from the injury up his stomach, down his thigh; he’s lying on his back, but he feels lightheaded. Thirsty. Cold.

He’s also aware that Yuri’s driving way too fast again, but he lets him. Speed has this soothing effect on people like them; clearing heads, settling racing pulses. Easing worries.

Maybe, Otabek won’t die after all.

He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes, has dozed off, until he opens them - the car isn’t moving anymore, and Yuri’s kneeling beside him in the back, rummaging through things with the help of his phone flashlight.

“Yuri…”

“Can you sit up?” Yuri asks, with strain in his voice. He’s decidedly avoiding Otabek’s gaze, hands busy, but Otabek notices the heap of pillows right beside him, blankets spread out.

With a grunt and more shooting pain, Otabek manages to lie back on the soft cushions, almost in a sitting position. He watches Yuri uncap a bottle of water, scoot closer and bring it to his lips, and Otabek drinks generously, the cool liquid refreshing on his dry tongue.

“As much as you can,” Yuri says, though it sounds like an order.

Otabek finishes off the entire bottle, with only a couple of drops escaping his lips, and Yuri hurls the bottle over his shoulder into the closed back door of the car, before he opens another.

When it, too, ends up empty and at the base of the door, Yuri licks his lips and looks down at his jacket, still in Otabek’s hands, pressed against his wound. He sounds like he's steeling himself, when he says, “I need to see it."

Otabek wishes Yuri would look at him instead.

Still, he slowly reveals the laceration, the red splotches on the tiger print and his equally soaked T-shirt, and... it’s not bleeding anymore. Not so freely, at least, with some of the blood dried around it.

Otabek doesn’t miss the hardening of Yuri’s gaze, the squaring of his shoulders, but - without a word - Yuri sets to work. It takes Otabek a touch too long to realize that Yuri has the first aid kit they’d picked up way back when opened next to him, and is pulling Otabek’s shirt up.

“Yuri.”

Yuri ignores him. He tears open a pack of sterile gauze, pours liberal amounts of vodka on it, and doesn’t even allow Otabek a second to brace himself before he presses is to the cut.

Otabek hisses, automatically shying away from the sting, but Yuri just increases the pressure.

“Sorry,” he grits out, and somehow makes it sound accusing, like it’s Otabek’s fault for getting himself hurt; for making Yuri do this.

As Yuri cleans the cut as best as he can, with the closest thing to medicinal alcohol they have, Otabek observes, breathing through the sting and the discomfort. Yuri’s blond hair is high up in a ponytail, neck drizzled with bruises and blood from the shallow cut of Long Hair’s knife - the same knife that later went into Otabek - and he’s angry.

So angry that he doesn’t even spare a glance at Otabek.

But Otabek knows Yuri’s anger. Knows that it’s a facade, a fiery front to hide vulnerability.

“Yuri-” Otabek begins softly, only to be cut off.

“I have nothing to suture the cut with,” Yuri says curtly, when he flings the red-stained gauze in the direction of the empty water bottles. “Which is just as well, because I really don’t think my experience with patching up costumes can help me with-”

“It’s fine,” Otabek says.

“-so I thought I’d just put gauze on it, tape it and then bandage it tight, to hopefully make it completely stop bleeding-”

“Yuri-”

Yuri shakes his head, determinedly focusing on unpacking more gauze, arranging it on the wound and using his teeth to cut off long strips of white adhesive to keep it in place.

Otabek watches him work for a while longer, his fingers precise and not careful in the least as he packs everything tightly. When he flattens the last piece of tape over the gauze and Otabek’s skin, Otabek speaks up,

“Yuri, it’s fine. I’m not-”

“It’s not fine!” Yuri yells suddenly, launching the roll of tape across the car; lucky that the windshield is bulletproof. “It’s not fucking fine, Otabek, you--” And finally Yuri looks at him, raw and laid bare, shoulders shaking as he shouts, “You got stabbed! How can it be even remotely fine when you had a knife in your gut and you’re _bleeding_ and I don’t know what to do about it! I don’t--” He gestures wildly at the makeshift dressing. “ _FUCK._ ”

“Yuri-”

“I’m not doing this on my own!” Yuri continues. “This, this fucked up thing - with the driving and looking for food and- and _surviving_ , I’m not doing it alone! It's too crazy, too fucking unreal and I can’t…!” He sounds like he suppressed a sob, eyes bright with unshed tears.

Otabek reaches for him, wanting to calm him down, tell him he’s wrong - Yuri can do anything he sets his mind to - and Yuri comes closer seemingly on reflex. He lets Otabek cup a blood-dried hand to his cheek, leans into his touch and closes his eyes.

“I can, maybe I can. But I don’t want to…” Yuri mutters with a pained frown. “I don’t want to do this alone. I’m not losing you, Otabek. I’m not…”

Yuri shifts closer, leans in and rests his forehead on Otabek’s, making Otabek forget to inhale. Making his heart _ache_  as he feels Yuri’s breath on his lips, a droplet of Yuri’s tear on the tip of his thumb.

“I’m… not…” Yuri whispers, and then - unexpectedly, beautifully - he kisses Otabek. Presses his dry lips to Otabek’s; lingering, soft and _oh so comforting…_

Otabek barely has time to breathe into it, to respond, before Yuri’s eyes fly open again; he pulls away just enough to stare at Otabek, slightly cross-eyed.

“ _Shit_ ,” Yuri says. “I kissed you.”

Otabek smiles. He drank a liter of water, but maybe he’s still lightheaded, dizzy, because he wants to laugh, to get up and embrace Yuri tightly, even though he doesn’t think he has the strength for it; so he gently strokes Yuri’s cheekbone instead, and whispers,

“You did. You can do it again, if you want.”

Yuri’s gaze flickers down to Otabek’s lips, then back up, and he says, “Yes.” Then once more, “Yes,” before they’re kissing again.

Before Otabek brings up his other hand to cradle Yuri’s face, to pull him closer and really taste him, to bask in his sweetness, his boldness… The tip of Yuri’s tongue licks at Otabek’s lower lip and Otabek lets him deepen the kiss, getting a soft, tiny noise out of Yuri which forever etches itself in Otabek’s memory…

Yuri smiles through it, rests his hands on Otabek’s chest, and yes, Otabek is aware that he’s in pain, that they’re covered in dirt and grime and worse, and that it smells too much of alcohol and blood inside the army vehicle, but he doesn’t want it any other way. It’s fitting somehow, that in this ruined, brutal life they found themselves in, something as heavenly as kissing Yuri also hurts.

Then Yuri moves, lifts a leg to straddle Otabek, and Otabek groans into his lips, his wound pulling in a way that he can’t ignore.

“Fuck, shit, motherf-” Yuri immediately stops, goes back to kneeling beside him. “Right. Knife wound. Sorry.”

He's straightened up now, looking both tired and mesmerizing as he takes in the tiny spots of red already visible on Otabek's gauze. Otabek scratches gently at the back of Yuri’s neck, where his hair is pulled into the high ponytail.

“Hey,” he says, to make Yuri turn back to him. “It’s okay. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’re okay.”

Yuri breathes out, and nods. “Yeah.” He leans in for one more kiss and smiles, in that small, cute way that he does sometimes. “We’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics at the beginning of the chapter from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0EVEXX9kpk), which was my soundtrack for the more dramatic scene at the shopping mall, haha.
> 
> If I don't change something because of pacing reasons, we should have (only) two more chapters to go! :)
> 
> ALSO YOU GUYS MAKE ME SO HAPPY WITH THE COMMENTS AND THE KUDOS THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH !


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another monster chapter *sweats*
> 
> * * *
> 
> The lyrics at the beginning from [Florence + The Machine - Dog Days Are Over](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWOyfLBYtuU).
> 
> **Shoutouts:**
> 
> To my writing penguin, [kaijoskopycat](http://kaijoskopycat.tumblr.com/), and the wonderful [robin-birdly](http://robin-birdly.tumblr.com/) who set my soul on fire with [stunning fanart](http://robin-birdly.tumblr.com/post/160057965474/makochka-has-blown-me-away-with-her-fic-almost) for the fic.

_Leave all your love and your longing behind you_  
_Can't carry it with you if you want to survive_

* * *

The moment he rolls over onto his left side - or tries to - the pain of his stab wound flares. Otabek curses, immediately rearranging himself.

He’s running out of options. It’s either lying on his back, staring up at the metal ceiling of their car, or on his right side, which has already gone numb.

In fact, his entire body is numb; no matter where he rests his limbs, they’re sore and oversensitive to the blankets around him, to the hard surfaces on all sides. He tries to sit up as often as he can, tries to change positions, but it’s only so much he can do.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Yuri mutters into the darkness.

“Sorry,” Otabek says, still shifting, trying to place his legs in a way that doesn’t make him want to chew one of them off.

Yuri sighs, and Otabek feels him shuffle next to him before the white flashlight illuminates the space.

“You can’t sleep,” Yuri says. He’s propped on his elbow and glaring at Otabek, his hair as tangled as it always is when he wakes up. “Again.”

There’s tiredness in his eyes, a touch of dark violet underneath them - a testament to how little he’s been sleeping as well. Not for the first time in the past week, Otabek feels guilty for disturbing him. For not being able to help.

They’ve decided that it’s best for Otabek to stay in the back of the car and rest - save for the necessary physiological outings - while Yuri goes out alone and gets whatever they need. Otabek was adamant against it, but in the end had to give in when Yuri impatiently explained that there was no way they could live out of the back of the car for more than a week, without ever stopping to resupply. (Of course, rationally, Otabek knew that. But the thought of letting Yuri roam the unknown villages and stores by himself - especially after what they’ve been through - made him sixteen levels of anxious. Protective.)

They have also opted against finding a house to stay in. In case they get surprised by more humans, the car provides mobility as well as military-grade armor.

“Still hurts?” Yuri asks. One of his hands freely uncovers Otabek’s torso, lifting up two layers of sweatshirts for Yuri to see the dressing he’s been changing every day now. He presses two fingers into the bandage wrapped tightly around Otabek’s midriff, over the taped gauze.

Otabek swallows a grunt, tensing from the pain.

“A little,” he mutters, not looking at Yuri, and Yuri snorts.

“You’re a piss poor liar, you know that?”

“It’s not like we can do anything about it, anyway.”

“What, the pain or you lying about it?” There’s a ghost of a smirk on Yuri’s lips, and Otabek can’t help but smile in return.

Yuri had asked him about it, but it was an easy choice for Otabek, saying no to anything stronger than ibuprofen (which doesn’t really help, with an injury like this); a zombie apocalypse is probably the shittiest moment to get addicted to painkillers.

Once he’s satisfied with what the bandage looks like - not bleeding at all the past couple of days - Yuri covers Otabek back up, but doesn’t move his hand away from his stomach. Just keeps it there, warm and comforting over Otabek’s clothes, like it belongs.

 _It does,_ Otabek’s mind echoes. _It does._

“Sorry for waking you up,” Otabek says softly. He brushes a knot of Yuri’s hair away from his face; that face which he can’t bring himself to look away from. Captivating, even in its exhaustion.

“Eh, fuck it.” Yuri shrugs. “Almost time for your antibiotic, anyway.”

As if on cue, his phone’s alarm starts crowing like a rooster, and Yuri sits up. “Which you can’t take on an empty stomach.”

So they enjoy a snack in the middle of the night, like every other night since Otabek got injured. Yuri eats his fair share of the salty crackers, too, but he keeps a watchful eye on how much Otabek takes and always insists he has one more. Forcefully.

And they talk. Otabek has learned more about Yuri, about the Vaganova Academy of Russian Ballet he had attended, about his favorite choreographies, jumps, role models, about how he prefers solo dance to partner work, but obviously never could escape the latter.

Yuri’s passion for ballet, for his career, radiates out of his every pore; Otabek is drawn to the excited gleam in his eyes, the grand sweep of his arms and the undiluted concentration when Yuri explains the finer points of some ballet steps Otabek has only vaguely heard of. He’s smitten with dance, with movement, and nothing short of inspiring to listen to.

To marvel at.

Then, as Otabek finishes off his last cracker - two more than he should’ve had - Yuri’s hands come to rest on the blanket pooled in his lap, and he looks at Otabek.

“I wish you could’ve seen it,” he says, talking about the lavish premiere of _Don Quixote._ “It was beautiful.”

“I’m sure you were,” Otabek replies, because he’s certain that he’d only have eyes for one person in the entire production.

Yuri scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his cheeks turn charmingly pink. “Lack of sleep makes you say the stupidest things,” he mutters, packing the crackers away, making Otabek smile wider.

“Maybe it would help if you slept with me, Yura,” he says.

It’s only when Yuri’s fair eyebrows shoot up, hand with crackers hovering over the bag, that Otabek realizes he’s:

  1. Used a nickname he’s never said out loud before. (But has wanted to, many times.)
  2. Suggested they have sex.



Lack of sleep _does_ make him say the stupidest things.

Otabek clears his throat and tries to correct the fuckup, “I mean, sleep… _next_ to me. But closer. Than usual.”

Yuri’s surprise eases into a smirk. He searches through the bag a little, finds the antibiotic and hands one pill to Otabek, with a bottle of water. Then he moves his pillow right next to Otabek’s and settles down beside him.

“This close enough?” he teases when Otabek swallows his medicine and gets back under the blankets. It’s on his already tender right side, but it doesn’t matter because - without waiting for an answer - Yuri slides even closer, lifting Otabek’s covers and nestling right into his space.

Otabek hums in approval. He closes his eyes and nuzzles Yuri’s face, kisses his cheekbone and the tip of his nose. “Close enough, for now.”

Yuri smiles and finds Otabek’s lips then; no matter how many times they’ve kissed now, Otabek’s mind still reels at the first brush of Yuri’s lips against his own, at the slow, playful way he kisses Otabek. Yuri makes it a game, licks into Otabek’s mouth and pulls away with a smirk, driving him mad in the best of ways.

Yuri’s curious, devilish hands sneak again under Otabek’s sweatshirt, but this time feel up, above the bandage, and flatten over skin; Otabek’s breath hitches.

“Yura,” he whispers, because he can, because he’s not entirely sure what he wants to say, just that he wants to keep kissing, being touched like this…

“Y’know,” Yuri begins conversationally, long fingers tracing patterns over Otabek’s chest. “I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you in other ways, too.” His lips linger over Otabek’s temple, then his ear, and Yuri whispers, “Especially if it’s with you between my legs…”

The image, the fantasy of Yuri’s long legs wrapped around his waist, of him fucking into Yuri’s strong, tight body, goes straight to Otabek’s dick. He moans, kisses Yuri long and hard, grabs a fistful of his messy hair-

“Yes,” Otabek breathes, hot and bothered and in pain - wanting and yet unable to have, like the sweetest torture he’s ever been under. “Yes, to all of the sleeping. As soon as I get better.”

And Yuri laughs loudly in the quiet of the car, presses closer, but agonizingly doesn’t move, doesn’t encourage anything other than the kissing - the delicious, dizzying game, until they’re both too tired to play it anymore.

Until they fall asleep like that, out of breath and smiling in each other’s arms.

* * *

They don’t have the need to discuss their relationship.

It would’ve mattered before, maybe. If they were friends, with or without benefits; if they were dating exclusively or not, was this serious or just for fun-

Otabek watches as Yuri braids his hair in the morning, sitting cross legged with his knees touching Otabek’s side, deft fingers weaving tresses of pale gold. Yuri’s not quite awake yet - there’s that storm in his eyes, promising decapitation to anyone who speaks to him too early.

Grumpy. Cute. Otabek smiles.

The truth is, they’re all of the above. Friends. Comrades. Partners. Kissing. Sleeping together. Fighting together. Probably having sex in the future.

Saving each other’s lives.

All of it.

From where he’s lying on his back, propped up by the number of pillows that only seems to be growing with each passing day, Otabek stretches his arm.

“You missed a strand,” he says, fingers brushing over Yuri’s neat braid, almost halfway done. His hair is long, falling way past his shoulders now.

“What?” Yuri’s voice is rough with sleep. He squints muzzily at what he’s doing. “Where?”

“Here.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“Here, look.” 

“Otabek, I can’t see shit- _ACK!_ ” Yuri yelps when Otabek tugs on the sleeve of his hoodie, pulls him sideways and right into his arms. “No! Otabek!” Yuri struggles, but not really, while Otabek kisses the hell out of his hair, the side of his face, his neck. Yuri flings curses at him and pretends to be Royally Pissed Off, but he’s mindful of Otabek’s injury, until he finally goes limp in the embrace, his hair once again in complete disarray.

“I hate you,” Yuri growls, though there’s a titter in his voice.

“You did miss a strand,” Otabek says into the warm skin just above Yuri’s collar.

“Fuck off.”

Otabek laughs, and then Yuri gives in and laughs, too.

No, it’s not important to name what they are. No point in trying to define it, to label it, when all of that belongs to a different world now.

What matters is that they feel _right._

* * *

“Okay!” Yuri announces. He drops the supply bag in the back of the car, the one he’d gone and filled that day with whatever scraps of food and drink he could find. His blue gaze fixes on Otabek. “Get out.” 

“Out?” Otabek raises his eyebrows over the book in his hands.

He’s only marginally comfortable on the blankets, and Yuri had provided him with random reading material from random houses, to have something to occupy his mind with while Yuri’s out; to not spend the entire time waiting for Yuri to return in one piece.

(That’s in addition to the games on Yuri’s phone, which they’d already had an argument about, since Otabek had beaten almost all of Yuri’s high scores during his bed rest.)

“Yes, out,” Yuri says. “It’s been two weeks. You’re healing nicely and there are no signs of infection. I think it’s safe to say that you can get out of the car for real.”

“Fuck _yes_.” Otabek slams the book shut and sits up so fast that twinkling spots invade his vision.

The pain of his cut has reduced to a dull, barely noticeable throb in the past couple of days, and Yuri had stopped bandaging him up all around the waist, instead dressing the wound only with a thin layer of gauze and adhesive tape.

Otabek rummages for his jacket in the mess of their lair - they’ll need to clean out half of this stuff soon - and when he finally slides out of the car and into another gray, dry autumn day, he sees a-

Chair.

A lone wooden chair in a field of dismal grass, with a bucket of probably well water next to it. Yuri’s casually leaning on it, a towel slung over his shoulder. He’s in his tiger printed jacket again, with dark smears over the front and part of one sleeve - Otabek’s blood stains that Yuri couldn’t wash out. It’s strange to Otabek that Yuri still insists on wearing it; he makes a mental note to find him a similarly ridiculous jacket to replace this one. Maybe something that sparkles.

“It’s a chair,” Otabek says then, looking at it in confusion.

“Glad to see your observational skills are still intact.” Yuri smirks and gestures to the empty seat. “It’s a chair for you to sit on.”

“Huh. Okay…” Otabek takes a few slow steps, still not understanding. “Am I… getting a lap dance?”

Yuri laughs. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would,” Otabek says honestly, sits down and enjoys the intense blush on Yuri’s cheeks, how he tries to appear unbothered despite it.

“Maybe later,” Yuri mumbles, then clears his throat and shoves a hand in his jacket pocket. “What I actually thought about giving you right now… is a haircut.” He pulls out the damn hair clippers from the shopping mall and switches them on; a low buzz filters through the hush of the field. He’d evidently found batteries somewhere.

Otabek looks at the gadget, then at Yuri. “You’re gonna do my hair?”

“Yeah! I remember what you told me, about how you used to wear it, and I’m pretty sure I can do that.” Yuri’s smile is wide and bright, and he seems genuinely excited about this.

Warmth and pure adoration for Yuri tingle through Otabek, to the tips of his fingers, and he smiles back.

“No weird patterns,” he says, even though Yuri already knows this.

“Yeah, yeah, no weird patterns. And up to here.” Yuri raises a finger somewhere above Otabek’s ear. “All around.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I can definitely do that.” Yuri raises the clippers. “If you’ll let me?”

Otabek takes a second to respond, because it’s the stupidest question; he’d let Yuri do anything to him.

“Of course I’ll let you,” he says.

Yuri beams. He drapes the towel around Otabek’s shoulders, and it tickles when he starts at the back of Otabek’s neck, dragging the clippers up to the middle of his head. He works slowly, with that intense flicker of concentration in his blue gaze, like a sculptor delicately shaping a masterpiece. It makes Otabek wonder if it’ll annoy Yuri to hear how adorable he is when focused like that.

Probably will. Probably best not to mention it while Yuri’s working around his ear.

Small tufts of hair fall onto the towel as Yuri carefully guides the clippers around the ear, and then he finally turns them off and straightens up to assess his work. Otabek opens his mouth to ask what it looks like, but Yuri lifts a hand to stop him, to indicate that he’s not done yet.

“Hold this.”

He hands Otabek the clippers and then pulls out a pair of scissors from his other jacket pocket, along with a small plastic comb, which he dips into the bucket of well water and runs through the longer hair on top of Otabek’s head.

It strikes Otabek how Yuri is _prepared_ \- he’d gathered all the tools and arranged the perfect setting: this vast, flat stretch of field where it’s immediately obvious if anyone, human or walker, attempts to approach them. Yuri had actually woken up that morning, and - in addition to exploring the local stores of the village on the other side of the field - _planned_ to do this for Otabek.

Otabek barely resists the urge to wrap his arms around Yuri and kiss him breathless. Instead, he spreads his legs for Yuri to stand between them and work on shortening the hair he hadn’t shaved off, the bangs that had been falling into Otabek’s eyes.

Otabek enjoys the feel of Yuri’s fingers in his hair, gently pulling and snipping and so, _so_ very relaxing… He rests his free hand on Yuri’s hip, slips it under the jacket and the layers of clothing-

“Don’t,” Yuri warns. He’s still focused on what he’s doing, but he frowns a little. “Don’t do that if you don’t want to lose an eye.”

“A risk I’m willing to take,” Otabek murmurs, and strokes the patch of smooth skin above the waistline of Yuri’s leggings, lightly scratches at it. He doesn’t miss Yuri’s exhale, the shift of his feet.

“Do you want this to look good or not?” Yuri snaps.

Otabek shrugs, reaching higher, feeling the warm softness under his fingertips. “You’re the one who has to look at me with the new haircut.”

“Just-” Yuri sighs and shakes his head, as though clearing his thoughts. “I’m almost done.”

He clips a few more strands - rather impatiently, Otabek thinks as he trails his fingers up and down Yuri’s side - and then lowers his tools, the comb and the scissors. He takes the clippers from Otabek and sets all of it down on the grass.

“There.”

“Done?” Otabek sneaks his other hand under Yuri’s clothes now, to feel more of him, to pull him closer…

“Done,” Yuri breathes. His gaze travels over Otabek’s new look, taking it in, and he must like what he sees because he bows his head and kisses Otabek, licks at his lips, letting out a low, pleased hum.

Otabek responds, splays his fingers over Yuri’s back, barely registering that Yuri slides the towel off his shoulders and lets it fall to the ground, too. They kiss slowly and easily, with lazy heat spreading between them, unhurried, sensual…

“You should wash your hair…” Yuri murmurs into Otabek’s lips, but doesn’t pull away to let him actually do that.

“Maybe later,” Otabek repeats Yuri’s words with a smirk.

But then Yuri grazes his teeth over Otabek’s bottom lip, wipes that smirk away in an instant. He drags his blunt fingernails up Otabek’s shaved neck, sends a shiver down his spine, tantalizing, and then Yuri climbs into his lap; straddles him, warm and willing and _beautiful…_

Some foggy part of Otabek’s mind is aware that they’re on a chair in the middle of a field, defenseless; that this is not safe, not smart, but _oh_ \- oh, Yuri moves. He rocks his hips into Otabek, and he’s hard in his leggings, fuck, already-

“Yura,” Otabek whispers with urgency, barely controlled _need._

“Touch me,” Yuri pleads, drags his lips to Otabek’s jawline, nibbles there. “Otabek, I want-”

Otabek doesn’t let him finish. He knows what Yuri wants, and he gives it to him, because that’s what he wants too; to touch Yuri, to feel all of him, to hear the sounds Yuri makes-

He withdraws one hand from underneath Yuri’s clothes and palms Yuri’s dick over the leggings, feels the outline of it, rigid and straining. Yuri gasps into his ear; his hips buck into it and Otabek _wants._ Wants this, wants more, wants it all-

Wants Yuri spread out before him, naked and ready.

Yuri whines, grinding into Otabek’s hand, slow but deliberate. He plants messy kisses wherever he can reach - Otabek’s jaw, cheek, lips - and he looks so lost, so wonderfully consumed that Otabek almost tells him how much he wants to fuck him right there. How he’s never been this horny in his life, his own dick painfully hard, and it’s good, it’s _so good-_

He slides down to brush his fingers over the swell of Yuri’s balls, and Yuri trembles, tense everywhere, moaning-

“No,” he says suddenly, _brokenly,_ and wraps a hand around Otabek’s wrist, stilling it. “Stop.”

Otabek pulls away to look into Yuri’s eyes, blown dark with lust. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his own voice gruff.

Yuri doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t reply. He’s breathing hard and his lips are kissed red, cheeks flushed; he looks so _scrumptious_ , and like it takes a lot of effort for him to remain still.

“I don’t…” Yuri laughs, but it sounds pained. “I don’t want to come in my pants.”

“Oh.”

“Not…” Yuri licks his lips, exhales and releases Otabek’s hand, who returns it under Yuri’s shirts, but doesn’t do more than just soothingly caress. “Not here.”

Otabek nods. He understands. He’s _aching_ for Yuri, for every line and curve of Yuri’s body, and he wouldn’t mind coming without taking his clothes off in this sad-looking grass surrounding them… But it’s not the most romantic of places.

Not that they’ll ever have a truly romantic place, but this is far from what he’d want for Yuri, when it comes to sex.

Yuri sighs and relaxes in Otabek’s lap. He leans in and touches their foreheads together.

“I want to… Fuck, I want to come _with_ you,” he whispers. “I want to come from your mouth, or your fingers…” Otabek’s mind latches onto _that_ in a heartbeat; his erection isn’t going away anytime soon, with that image. “Or on your _cock…_ ” Yuri smirks at the last word, the bastard, and Otabek laughs breathlessly.

“You have such a dirty mouth,” he says, before he kisses said mouth, not being gentle at all. _I love it._

“ _Hah…_ ” Yuri kisses back just as hard, once again scratching at the back of Otabek’s undercut, his fingers seemingly always ending up there. “Big fucking surprise,” he mutters.

They don’t do much more that day. They sit and laugh and Otabek does wash his hair, and concludes that Yuri did a great job with the hair cut. It’s almost exactly like he used to wear it, before.

They both think about sex.

They kiss and touch and never reach their peak, and talk about spending the night in a house somewhere soon.

* * *

When the temperature gauge on the dashboard starts going berserk, Otabek thinks that’s the end of their tank. He has to pull over to the side of the road before they reach the next village, and hope that it’s a minor thing; that it can be fixed without any spare parts or tools, and that their most prized possession isn’t pretty much fucked. 

He pops the hood and sighs in relief when he sees that it’s only one of the radiator hoses that’s dislocated. (“Thank the everloving fuck,” Yuri delicately puts it.)

But they have lost all the water from the engine, so they lock everything up, take their weapons and start on a long trek to the nearest well to get more. Otabek tells Yuri about how he learned to ride a motorcycle, about the bike he had, and how he’s been interested in cars ever since he was a kid, dismantling his brand new toy cars to learn how they worked, much to his parents’ despair.

He recounts how he nearly crashed into a bus one time, but luckily skidded across the asphalt and fell off his bike just before the bike itself slid under the bus - Otabek had escaped only with some nasty road rash.

“You almost got run over by a bus?!” Yuri stares at him as they walk down the deserted narrow road, with fields and woods on either side.

Otabek shakes his head. “No, not really. The bus was parked.”

“Wait.” Yuri’s mildly horrified expression slowly melts into laughter. “You lost control of your bike, and you nearly crashed into a _parked_ bus?! That’s just been standing there?” It’s the loud, uninhibited laugh which has a special place in Otabek’s heart, and Yuri slaps a hand on Otabek’s shoulder.

“I was going _fast,_  okay.” Otabek shoots him a look, doing his best to suppress a smile. “Too fast, I think. I didn’t see it until it was almost right in front of me.”

It takes Yuri some minutes to settle down, for his candid laughter to dissolve into giggles. “And here I thought you were some badass, biker gang type dude who ruled the highways or something,” he says.

Now Otabek does smile, because he likes Yuri thinking of him as a _badass biker gang type dude_ , even though it’s far from what he is. Was. He did own a leather jacket, though.

“I would’ve taken you for a ride,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I would’ve found you a tiger-printed helmet.” Yuri barks out another laugh, and Otabek continues, “Would’ve taken you to see my favorite places. For a walk by the lake. To grab some food. Maybe later…” He doesn’t think it wise to say it, but he does anyway, “Later, I’d introduce you to my family.”

“What, so soon?” Yuri accepts the make-believe with a raise of his golden brow. “We’ve only been…” He waves a hand to encompass whatever they are. All of what they are. “For… What, three weeks? A month?”

Otabek shrugs. “Not like I was involved with stunning ballet prodigies every other day.”

“Oh my god, you’re so…” Yuri rolls his eyes, but is blushing again, which makes him irresistible and compels Otabek to lean up and plant a kiss on a rosy cheek.

But in the next moment something moves out of the corner of Otabek’s eye.

Something growls, _close_ , and Otabek lifts his crossbow, aims it directly at the walker behind Yuri’s head.

“Duck.”

* * *

Aside from that one straggle of walkers on the way to the well, they don’t run into any more trouble. Not even when it takes them longer to lug a rusty bucket full of water back to the car.

It’s late afternoon by the time Otabek takes another look under the hood. The last of sunlight pours over the horizon; their plan is to get to the next village - the one they had to walk almost all the way to for the water - before nightfall, and camp out in the car until dawn, when they’ll either move on or look for a house to stay in for a few days, depending on their mood.

Otabek reaches for the radiator hose to fix it in place when chilly hands slide under his jacket and sweater, wrap around from behind and flatten over his ribs. He shudders from the cold touch, but smiles at Yuri’s solid weight leaning into him.

“You’re wearing the gray sweatpants,” Yuri mumbles into his shoulder, when Otabek once more moves to take the hose.

“So?”

“ _So._ ” Yuri’s tone implies that Otabek isn’t the brightest and has missed the obvious thing Yuri tried to say. “They… look good on you.”

Otabek laughs. “Do they?”

“Mhm…” Yuri presses a warm, wet kiss just behind Otabek’s ear, then says, “Noticed your ass in them. When you took down that walker without a jaw. You have a great ass.”

Otabek drops the damn hose with a _clang!_ right back into the car’s machinery. He already feels hot, with Yuri pressed into him, chest to Otabek’s back, and with Yuri’s lips trailing down his neck, to the collar of his jacket.

“ _Fuck,_ Yuri…” Otabek breathes out, his eyes fluttering shut.

Yuri smirks; he rocks forward while holding Otabek tightly, and Otabek feels him - the roughness of his jeans, the bulge of Yuri’s cock right between his ass cheeks; he _wants it,_ fuck, wants it so bad that he cants his hips back on reflex. _More._

“Come on, Yura,” he whispers, and it seems to be all Yuri needs to grind into Otabek’s ass, to rub himself against him, letting out small moans… Small sounds of pleasure that surge through Otabek, coil in his gut, making him painfully hard.

He meets Yuri’s every move, gripping on the edge of the car for support, and he doesn’t dare touch himself. He’s sure he’d come within seconds, because his mind is fixated on the promise of Yuri’s dick one day in his ass, of Yuri fucking him for real, sliding slick in and out and muttering obscenities in his ear…

“Want you, Otabek,” Yuri says, voice husky. “Want your ass… Your thighs...”

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “Yes,” is all Otabek can say. “God, yes…”

The moment Yuri’s moans reach a desperate note, he stops moving; stops chasing his climax with a frustrated sigh. He breathes heavily, holds Otabek close and nuzzles into his neck to wind down, and Otabek chuckles at the slight tickle. His fingers are numb from where he’s still clutching at the edge of the car, his brain fuzzy with lust.

“We have to get naked,” Yuri mumbles, making Otabek laugh.

“We can arrange that. Find a house tomorrow. With a bed, where we can be naked all we want.”

Yuri’s smile ghosts over Otabek’s flushed skin. “Deal.”

Otabek turns around in Yuri’s arms, leans back on the car with the hood still up. He admires how some of Yuri’s hair has fallen out of his low ponytail, how Yuri always looks so delightfully tousled after what they do; soft and unfocused, only this time his lips aren’t swollen from kissing, and Otabek is going to remedy that. He pulls Yuri in by his stained jacket and kisses him, long and slow and deep, until their arousal is no longer tight and urgent, but a pleasant hum in their veins.

“We can’t have sex, though,” Otabek says. “I mean, y’know, the kind where…” He clears his throat, suddenly - irrationally - self-conscious, and Yuri laughs.

“The kind where a dick goes up an ass?” Otabek laughs, too, because trust Yuri to be blunt about everything. His hands are lazily travelling up and down Otabek’s back underneath his clothes, blue eyes gleaming in the waning daylight. “Why not?”

“Because we have no protection. And no lube.”

Yuri snorts. “I really don’t think we need to worry about condoms, when in theory an entire horde of rotten zombies can just barge inside the house while we’re having sex and eat us both.”

Otabek sighs. “That’s a lovely image, Yura, thank you.”

“No, but really!” Yuri isn’t concerned about this at all, it seems. “It’s not like we’re going to sleep around with anyone else. _And_ I’m healthy, and I trust that you are, too, so.”

“So, we still need lube.”

“Well.” Yuri quirks an eyebrow. “That I’ve got covered.”

“What?”

“What,” Yuri repeats defensively. “You were locked in the car for two weeks! Did you think I _wasn’t_ gonna try and find what we need to have proper sex?”

“You…” This rampaging giddiness in Otabek’s chest is surely unhealthy. Just like with cutting Otabek’s hair, Yuri had thought about this, planned for it, and organized it; _he wants Otabek_ , just as much as Otabek wants him, in every way imaginable, fuck. “You’re amazing,” Otabek says, earning himself another pointed eyeroll.

Yuri opens his mouth to reply, but then something over Otabek’s shoulder grabs his attention, and his lips remain parted, words caught in his throat.

“Yura?”

Otabek turns and sees it, too. Over the hood of the car, in the far distance and glaring against the darkening sky, is a strip of orange.

Fire, just like before. Large, probably consuming an entire village, and no doubt accompanied by a crazed, morally deprived organization; the Salvation Brigade.  
  
“I think our house will have to wait,” Otabek says.

* * *

The next day they drive without stopping, in the direction opposite of the fire. 

“But I don’t get it,” Yuri says from the passenger seat. “It’s been… two, three months, since we last saw them?” Since they fled Yuri’s hometown.

“Something like that, yeah.” Otabek has been only loosely tracking the passage of time, more caring about the hour on Yuri’s phone than the date.

True, they may not have tried very hard to find a map, but it’s impossible that they’ve accidentally circled back to the area they had left to stumble upon the Brigade again. Neither of them is stupid enough to not notice it. They’ve been steadily driving South, through new, unknown villages, and avoiding larger towns.

No, the alternative is more likely, and far more concerning.

“They’re growing,” Otabek says, eyes on the road ahead. “Increasing in numbers. Maybe there’s no longer one central group but many smaller ones.”

Spreading, like the plague, like the fucking virus that had already obliterated most of humanity. Figures.

The size of the theoretical smaller groups is still surely more than two people, armed to the teeth and itching for a fight or worse, and Yuri and Otabek can’t afford to run into them.

So they pass several villages, stop to siphon fuel out of a cluster of haphazardly parked cars, and continue on until darkness closes in around them. The glowing beacon of fire is now barely visible on the inky black horizon, and they decide to drive for most of the next day, too, before they agree that it’s somewhat safe to look for a house for the night. Or several nights, depending on the direction in which the Brigade goes next.

On a long, empty road between two villages they take a break, get out of the car to stretch and bring some feeling back into their legs.

“Hey, look, another shopping mall!”

Otabek turns to Yuri with a look of _are you fucking kidding me_ , but Yuri laughs and waves it off.

“Kidding. I mean, not kidding, there really is some kind of a sports complex-slash-shopping mall-slash-motel out there, but there’s no way we’re going anywhere near it.”

They both squint in that direction, way past the billboard advertising it on the side of the road; the supposedly vast structure that promises fun and sports and cheap rooms is but a dot against the grey sky.

Otabek would sooner cut off his right hand than even think of driving there.

But on the other, opposite side of the road, much closer to where they stand, is a house. Right on the edge of a pinewood forest, surrounded by a tall wooden fence with a gate hanging off its hinges, as though someone had driven straight through it to escape the property. Which, given the circumstances, maybe they had.

The house itself is medium sized, a cozy combination of wooden logs and brick, and looking like it must’ve been a lovely, peaceful place for a weekend getaway.

“Want to check it out?” Yuri asks.

Otabek assesses it a moment longer, but he can’t find a reason not to. It’s not overwhelmingly large - the surrounding land and outhouses not any bigger than the ones they’ve already raided countless of times - and there are no signs of people inside.  
  
“Sure,” Otabek says, and they climb back into the car to drive to it.

* * *

They find two cars and one empty parking space just inside the smashed wooden gate. Both cars have flat tires, their surfaces so stained by rain, pine needles and bird droppings that they obviously hadn’t been used in months.

As Otabek and Yuri make their way towards the house - armed and alert - they give the chicken coop a wide berth; no bird left alive in there, judging by the sinus-opening reek.

Yuri does the silent countdown in front of a spacious shed while Otabek has the crossbow aimed at its door, and when it swings open they discover wood. And coal.

“Holy shit,” Yuri whispers. Otabek shares the sentiment. “We can light a fire. Finally!”

If there’s a fireplace, or a wood burning heater, or even a stove, they can finally get warm. And maybe tonight they won’t have to sleep with thousand and one layers of clothing and/or blankets, and maybe-

A _thump_ interrupts their awe of the find - a walker had stumbled on a water hose coiled on the ground behind them, and Otabek fires an arrow through its head before it gets a chance to right itself.

As they venture further into the property, around the house, they find a half-decomposed, emaciated cow tied to the back fence; whoever had driven out of here didn’t think to set the poor thing free beforehand. One more walker ambles across the back lawn, barely noticing the humans before an arrow pierces its chest.

There’s a well, and a square of fertile soil, with remains of neglected vegetables and fruits, overtaken with weeds.

When they step inside the house through the back door, the kitchen and dining room are filled with low, resonating growling of two adult walkers and one child, not older than 12. Yuri and Otabek dispose of them without problems and carry the zombified bodies out, piling them next to the cow’s corpse.

If they ignore the dark stains of zombie ooze, the interior looks… lived in. Cozy. The living room is large, with mismatched furniture - a big, sagging brown leather armchair, and a sofa with a quilted blanket thrown over it. There is indeed a fireplace, with framed pictures of a family collecting dust on the mantel; the couple with the young girl they’d just gotten rid of. A bookshelf beside the fireplace is overstuffed with volumes; there are even books just carelessly stacked on the floor around it, no space left on the shelves.

“They had everything,” Otabek voices his thoughts at last, relaxing a bit, but not letting go of his crossbow - they have yet to check the rest of the house.

Yuri looks at him questioningly, and Otabek gestures at the entire compound.

“Fire, water, eggs, maybe even chicken meat, milk, veggies… Entertainment.” He considers the two cars they saw, the one empty parking space. The family turned into walkers, and the couple from the yard. “Three families, maybe. They were planning to live here.”

The words hang between them, heavy like lead.

It’s the first time they encountered signs, solid proof, that someone attempted to weather this epidemic. That they prepared themselves, as best as they could, and planned to make it through.

This house was intended as a safe haven; a shelter from the horrors of what the world has become. These people have been just as determined to survive as Otabek and Yuri are now.

And they failed.

Yuri’s gaze lowers to the tacky quilted blanket on the sofa. He manages a small, humorless smile and says, quietly, “We had chickens, too.”

Otabek is taken by surprise, but before he can consciously decide that he’s not going to interrupt, Yuri looks at him. Something so fragile in his blue eyes - so _pained -_ cracks a line right down Otabek’s heart; makes him take a step towards Yuri, only to stop and think better of it. To wait for Yuri to tell his story. If he chooses to.

“That’s how I made the pirozhki, if you remember?” Of course Otabek remembers; it’s the last homemade meal he’d had. “My grandpa’s recipe. We, uh…” Yuri reaches with his free hand to idly pick an invisible thread off the blanket. “We didn’t have _everything_ , but we had enough, the two of us. Even though no one around thought the threat was real, grandpa still wanted us to stack up on the necessary things.” Yuri’s smile grows wider, warmer, only a fraction. “He was always careful, always prepared for everything. And once the original panic died down, I was able get out of the house. To get the stuff we ran out of. More food, water…”

“Medicine,” Otabek adds, remembering where he’d first learned Yuri’s name.

It had been for the grandfather. The drug, whatever Yuri had been so frantic about, whatever-

Otabek looks at him. _Whatever he’d been crying about._ Yuri had intercepted his car with bloodshot eyes, with dirt stains on his shirt; he’d cried practically every night for weeks…

Yuri’s hand clenches into a fist, knuckles white, and his voice wavers when he says, “Grandpa had heart problems for a long time. The… The stress, the fear must’ve…” _Made him worse_ , Yuri doesn’t have to say it. He bows his head, silent for a moment. Then he shuts his eyes and whispers, “I tried. I did my best, but I didn’t know how… I couldn’t-”

For a second, Otabek thinks Yuri will start crying - and he’s ready to bridge the distance between them, to wrap his arms around Yuri and hold him - but Yuri only shakes his head, mutters a “Fuck,” under his breath.

Then he opens his eyes, and they spark with something lively, _fierce_ behind the unshed tears. “Grandpa did tell me to accept your invitation, though. To fight, and to survive outside the town. _And_ , if you tried anything, he told me to cut off your balls and feed them to you.”

Otabek snorts out a laugh despite himself, and then Yuri smiles for real, even if a little sadly, and Otabek finally comes closer. He stops in front of Yuri and gently threads his fingers through his blond hair, to which Yuri lets out a soft murmur, and leans into it.

Otabek wants to tell him how strong he is, how capable and resilient, but all that comes out is, “A soldier…”

“Fucking you’re the one to say,” Yuri huffs thickly. “You have a tank!”

“ _We_ have a tank,” Otabek corrects him, smiling. Then he presses a kiss to the corner of Yuri’s lips, and says, “Come on, let’s see if we can find some more walkers for you to dismember.”

Yuri laughs faintly. “Hell yeah.”

* * *

They do find one more walker in the small bathroom, and throw out its remains with the other ones. 

It takes a short argument for Yuri to convince Otabek that he can inspect the last three rooms by himself (demonstrating that there is, in fact, no basement in the house), and that Otabek can get wood and coal to start a fire.

There’s no axe anywhere that Otabek sees, so he helps himself with Yuri’s axe from their car. He chops wood inside the shed until he’s out of breath and sweating through his hoodie, muscles burning, and then he gathers an armful of dried planks and takes a bucket of coal with him back to the house.

Yuri has rearranged the living room - pushed the sofa and the leather armchair by the window and brought in a king-sized mattress from a bedroom, laid it across the wildly patterned carpet in front of the fireplace. Otabek says nothing as he kneels to make a pyramid out of the wood, with coal and torn pieces of newspaper in the center, but he doesn’t hide his smirk.

“What,” Yuri bristles behind him.

“Nothing.”

“There are heaters in the bedrooms, but I figured it’d be smarter to heat up only one room instead of many, so why not this one.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Also, if we’re gonna fuck, we might as well do it in front of the fire.”

Otabek chokes on his amusement, fumbling with the box of matches he’d retrieved from the mantle.

“Dammit, Yuri,” he says softly, with affection, and hears Yuri snort before he stalks off somewhere in the direction of the back door, leaving Otabek to light the paper and absolutely _not_ think about all the possibilities of the mattress in front of the fire.

* * *

It’s strange, to be warm; to have a steady, comforting source of heat, bright flames dancing in the fireplace, bathing the living room in a soft, orange glow. Like something forbidden, something unattainable that can too easily crumble into cold, harsh reality… 

They have made a bed on the mattress out of their own sheets, pillows and blankets, but - after a quick and unappetizing dinner - Otabek chooses to sink into the leather armchair instead, with one of the books from the overflowing shelf. He’d forgotten just how cozy a person could be; just how content and peaceful… His eyelids are heavy as he tries to focus on the plot, a crime thriller he assumes, but the armchair cushions embrace him completely, and it’s only minutes before he starts feeling drowsy.

At some point he must have drifted off, because in the next moment he opens his eyes to Yuri standing over him, lifting the open book off his chest and putting it away on a side table. It’s dark outside, inside, everywhere but around them, and the flickering light softens Yuri’s beautiful features; it makes his eyes dark and his hair like liquid fire. Otabek takes a strand between his fingers, sleepily wondering if that’s how sunrays feel to the touch, silky and-

Yuri smiles, apparently amused by Otabek’s half-consciousness.

“Time for a bath,” he says, taking Otabek’s hand away from his loose hair and twining their fingers together, pulling Otabek off the armchair.

He trudges behind Yuri, his awareness slowly returning when he realizes that Yuri had taken off his jacket, has just slipped out of his sweatshirt, and is pulling his t-shirt over his head, casually dropping it to the floor on the way to the bathroom.

Oh. Taking a bath… together.

Yuri ducks into the small bathroom, only enough for a toilet, a sink and a shallow shower tub, but it’s… glowing, the same way as the living room, diffused and molten. Candles; two tall ones in simple candlesticks by the door, more shorter ones in glasses on the sink and the floor… It’s warm again, somehow… Steaming?

“I heated up some water while you were asleep.” Yuri gestures to two large pots of hot water, along with a cauldron filled almost to the brim, steam curling up from them into the tiled space, raising the temperature.

“A warm bath,” Otabek says, in awe.

None of this seems real; seems possible. This calm, dream-like scene where he is safe and warm and everything is feather-soft. Where Yuri is in front of him, shirtless; all elegant lines and sinewy muscle, tall, defined and flawlessly pale. Otabek can’t take his eyes off those collarbones; he’s helpless. In love.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, afraid that he’ll dispel this magic if he raises his voice.

Yuri smiles, a genuine small smile, and reaches. He unzips Otabek’s hoodie, slips it off his shoulders, and he stands close, _so close_ … His soft lips brush Otabek’s cheek, warm breath ghosts over Otabek’s face, but they don’t kiss; they simply close their eyes and enjoy the closeness, the intimacy, as Otabek’s hoodie falls to the floor.

Like the entire world falls away. Like this is the only thing that exists; this bathroom, this fiery glow, and Yuri. The only thing that’s worth something.

Yuri tugs Otabek’s t-shirt off, and then he’s the one staring; _admiring Otabek_ , gaze open and appreciative, and Otabek lets him look, lets him trail his fingers down his chest, his stomach - nothing but skin and muscle at this point - and then Yuri traces the uneven scar near Otabek’s left hipbone; tender and pink with freshly healed skin.

“You saved my life,” Yuri says quietly, eyes following the path of his fingertip, where it meets the waistline of Otabek’s jeans.

“You saved mine,” Otabek replies simply. _This is what we are._

Yuri kisses him in response; he leans in and snatches Otabek’s breath, his sanity, and every last smidgen of self-restraint Otabek might’ve had.

“Yura, god, Yura…” he murmurs as he kisses back, tastes those hot lips… Skin on skin, touching, pulling close and _feeling_. Otabek surrenders, weak for Yuri’s hands on him, for Yuri exploring and scratching, licking like he can’t get enough, like Otabek is here just for him, and he is, god yes, just for Yuri-

He grabs a handful of Yuri’s hair and tugs; Yuri’s gasp echoes in the candlelit silence. His head tips back and Otabek wastes no time in dragging his tongue up that throat, smooth and inviting, and nipping at Yuri’s jawline.

“Water,” Yuri manages to say. His arms are around Otabek’s shoulders, his clothed erection already pressed into Otabek’s, but he continues, breathless, “Dammit, Otabek, this was supposed to be a bath.”

Otabek somehow manages to laugh into Yuri’s jaw; not let go, no, but relax a bit, and kiss him more. Find his way back to Yuri’s lips and nod. “Yes, okay. Bath first.”

But they stay like that, in each other’s arms, for a beat longer, foreheads touching, before Yuri pulls away with obvious effort. Otabek nearly whimpers at the loss.

Yuri takes a clean towel and dips it into the hot water of one of the pots. He wrings it only a little, and then lightly presses it to Otabek’s chest.

And Otabek never imagined that the simple fact of hot water could feel so good. He sighs, feeling every last knot in his body loosen, tension in his muscles, his spine, bleeding away. He closes his eyes and melts, with Yuri gently scratching at his undercut with one hand while dragging the towel over his body with the other; across his chest, over one shoulder, down his back… It’s dizzyingly calming, cloying hot, and intoxicating… Otabek hasn’t thought much about heaven, but he’s sure this would be a part of it.

“Take them off,” Yuri whispers, and it takes a heady moment for Otabek to realize that Yuri is talking about his jeans, his underwear.

He does as he’s asked. Otabek unbuttons his pants and pushes them down to the tiled floor, followed quickly by his boxers. He’s hard, and unashamed of it - especially with the way Yuri’s gaze rests on his dick, the now lukewarm towel pausing over Otabek’s bicep.

“Otabek…” Yuri breathes out, like he’s not even aware he’s said it.

Otabek smiles and leans in, licks into Yuri’s mouth, amused that it takes a bit longer for Yuri to gather himself and kiss back. Without breaking apart, Otabek slowly pries the towel away from Yuri’s hand and says into his lips, “My turn now.”

He soaks the towel again, twists it a little and already knows where he’s going to start; that sharp, enticing line of porcelain skin over Yuri’s collarbone… Otabek doesn’t resist pressing his lips there right after the towel. He hears Yuri’s breath catch, and tastes hot droplets of water as he laps at the dip between collarbone and shoulder; as he slides the towel downward, over Yuri’s chest, and drags a thumb over his nipple. Yuri shudders under the touch, lets out a surprised, delicious little _oh._

“Otabek,” he breathes, and Otabek doesn’t ease up. The towel leaves Yuri’s sensitive skin flushed and glistening in the candle glow, and Otabek wants to run his tongue all over it. He lightly bites at Yuri’s shoulder, licks down to his other nipple and sucks it into his mouth.

Yuri whines, fingers twisted hard in Otabek’s hair, but not pulling him away, and then, suddenly, “Beka. Beka, _ah…_ ”

The nickname almost makes Otabek come on the spot.

He sinks his teeth in Yuri’s side, makes him cry out and arch into it. Otabek’s cock is leaking, now painfully hard; he needs to be touched. He’s close enough to beg to be touched, because they can, here. They finally can, and he wants it so badly that it _hurts_.

“Yura-” he starts, but Yuri’s hands are already in the waistline of his leggings.

“Yes, yes, just-” He takes them off along with his underwear in one go, and then he’s completely naked.

Hard, too, and stunning, a vision Otabek could never conjure in his wildest dreams- Though he doesn’t get much chance to properly revel in the sight of Yuri because Yuri is in his arms again, damp and warm and _pressed so close._

“Beka, Beka,” he repeats into Otabek’s lips and Otabek can’t _think_ , can’t process; he just _feels_. Runs his hands down Yuri’s sides, the swell of his firm ass, _squeezes_ and spreads him open, swallows Yuri’s moan… Yuri’s dick is against his own, _right there_ , but it’s not enough, it’s not-

Yuri pulls him into the shallow tub, picks up the nearest pot of water - now warm more than hot - and tips it over them, splashing everywhere, putting out one candle. He almost drops the pot in his hurry to set it back down and kiss Otabek again, to rub against him, and now it’s not dry anymore, _oh,_ this is-

“Yuri…” Otabek’s voice is rough, desperate; his lips linger over Yuri’s pulse, one hand sliding between them to take them both, to stroke them together, his hips bucking into Yuri. “So good, fuck, I need- I need to come,” the words escape him before he even understands what he’s saying, and then Yuri’s hand is there, too; helping him jerk them off, but slippery with something - soap, lube, he doesn’t care, it’s _perfect-_

Yuri’s little moans fill the bathroom as he presses Otabek into the wall, as he grinds into him, into their hands, just a little more, just-

“Beka…” Yuri says into his ear, low and husky. “Beka, I’m gonna-”

And Yuri comes with a cry, spilling over them both. Otabek strokes himself a couple of more times and then follows right behind, tight with his own orgasm; seeing white and gasping for breath, mind spinning with flames reflected in blue eyes and Yuri’s lips burning on his own, finally, _finally…_

“Yura,” he pants. “Yura…”

With effort, he raises his head and looks at Yuri, who is smiling, his blond hair clinging to his forehead and face, looking so blissed out…

Otabek smiles, too, and there’s that post-orgasm rush, pure euphoria as they laugh out loud, leaning into each other, wet and sticky and kissing, and laughing even more.

“Let’s never wait this long to get naked again,” Otabek says, thinking how they still need a proper bath now, and how he doesn’t have the coherence for it.

Yuri’s forehead is resting on Otabek’s shoulder and Otabek feels him nod. “Definitely. We can stay in this house a while longer?”  
  
“Mmmm. Sounds like a great idea.”

* * *

The walls are still cold, and they can’t yet sleep without any clothes on, but this time they’re only in thin t-shirts and one pair of sweatpants each, covered with a normal amount of blankets on their mattress in front of the fire. Yuri had thrown one last log into it before they settled in for the night, and it’s nearly burned out - only a few bright embers pierce the serene darkness.

They’ll easily start a new fire tomorrow.

Yuri shifts, nestles deeper into Otabek’s side and sleepily rubs his face into his chest. Like a cat, Otabek thinks with a smile. He’s lying on his back, one arm around Yuri as he faces the windows, able to see only a sliver of the sky; dull charcoal gray. It would be nice to see stars, and the moon perhaps, instead of the muddy clouds.

Next time, maybe.

“Did you have someone…?” Yuri breaks the soft silence. “When… When the outbreak happened, were you in a relationship with someone?”

“No,” Otabek answers honestly. Underneath the blankets, he slips a hand under Yuri’s t-shirt, caresses idly over his hip. “You?”

“No. Hm.” Otabek feels him smile. “Not like this, anyway.”

Otabek doesn’t bother analyzing the meaning; what sort of relationships Yuri might’ve had in the past, how many, of what kind, why they ended… None of that is important.

What is important is that Otabek agrees. _Not like this._ He also never had something this intimate, this intense, this comfortable, with sharing food and bed and their whole lives; relying on each other and trusting each other… In everything except phone games, apparently.

Otabek turns his head, breathes in the fresh, flowery scent of Yuri’s hair, and thinks that, maybe, he could have this for the rest of his life. Maybe, after all they’ve been through, this is what they get in the end; this strange fight for survival, and feelings so fierce and so tender at the same time…

Love? Maybe. Otabek knows that his feelings go deeper than infatuation, than plain physical attraction, but he’s in no hurry to dissect it, to worry about it. They work, like this, whatever it is.

“Hear that?” Yuri whispers, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Hear what?” Otabek’s hand that isn’t under Yuri’s clothes is already edging towards the crossbow on the carpet by the mattress, but Yuri laughs into his chest, and says,

“It’s raining.”

Soft, muffled pitter patter against the window panes of the house leaves silvery dots on the glass, and Otabek relaxes. He rolls onto his side and drapes himself over Yuri, earning another laugh from him, kissing his cheek and chin and the corner of his lips until Yuri kisses back.

* * *

In the middle of nowhere and on a dreary, rainy day outside, turns out there’s not much to do. Otabek makes a run to the shed to get more wood and coal, and Yuri throws out their water from yesterday and fetches more from the well.

And that’s about it, when it comes to going outside.

They explore the house, starting with the vast collection of books; some of them turn out to be school textbooks - probably for the child that was supposed to live there. Yuri and Otabek settle on the sofa and peruse, lamenting on their own education. Otabek shares how it was learning about machinery, mechanics, electronics, and Yuri tells him how he liked learning French, even though his French teacher was an _ass-faced bitch._

Otabek’s brain stutters at that, and he congratulates himself on keeping his composure when he asks, casually, for Yuri to say something in French.

The books end up on the floor, except the one lodged under Yuri’s back, which loses a few pages when Otabek kisses Yuri senseless and presses him into the sofa, tells him how incredibly sexy he is, both when speaking French and not. Yuri laughs, calls Otabek cheesy and then shamelessly slides his leg up, to grind his thigh against Otabek’s dick and get a moan out of him.

Later, they move on to the pantry beside the kitchen. The shelves are packed with bottles of water, juice of all kinds, instant soup and meals that require only boiling in hot water before eating.

They have a proper lunch.

The domesticity is painfully welcome, this promise of almost real food. Warmth spreads from the fireplace through the dining room where Otabek sets the table, with real plates and cutlery and _glasses._ Yuri chooses chicken noodle soup for them and two packets of peas with some meat, and prepares them in pots over the fire.

Otabek has a hard time restraining himself from wolfing everything down in three spoonfuls. Instead of choking on his peas that barely taste like peas and meat that doesn’t look like meat - but _warm_ and on a plate and with a _spoon_ \- he watches Yuri’s smile and his animated gestures. He smiles back, and follows the story of how one of the classic ballet teachers caught Yuri and his classmates doing hip-hop one time and nearly had a stroke.

The hushed, gentle sounds of rain from outside, the crackle of fire and their bellies full of something other than the misery they’d been eating so far, lull them into an afternoon nap. Otabek dozes off with his face buried in Yuri’s side, arms wrapped tight around Yuri’s lean frame and Yuri’s hand lazily stroking up and down over the shirt on Otabek’s back.

* * *

“There’s a piano,” Yuri says. He’s looking at his phone, holding it up over his face in a slightly awkward position with one arm around Otabek, and he must have noticed when Otabek opened his eyes.

He feels like he slept for years, though it’s still daylight outside; steely, stained with rain, and fading with each passing minute. Yuri is still warm and soft beside him, in his embrace.

“What?” Otabek croaks, pulling away a little, to make space for a long, satisfying stretch and a yawn.

“There are two bedrooms, and one…” Yuri waves a vague hand. “I don’t know, hobby room? It has a piano.”

Otabek’s sluggish brain takes a moment to process. _A piano._ Then he scrambles to his feet, swaying a little from the headrush, and walks down the hallway Yuri had investigated by himself yesterday.

First room is a bedroom, with a bed without a mattress - the one that’s theirs now, in front of the fireplace. But the second room is… Well, definitely a hobby room. Fairly large, but with a window that takes up almost one entire wall; bearing a broad view of the pine forest, with heavy gray clouds above the evergreen trees - it must be absolutely dazzling on sunlit days.

There’s a tall easel by the window, bearing a blank canvas - as though someone intended to capture the beauty of that view; a table with a chessboard and two chairs around it - pieces in a game that will never be finished, and - a piano.

A baby grand, the black of the wood dulled by a layer of dust, the fallboard and the top board closed. Otabek stares at it.

He wants to play it. He hasn’t played the piano in years, not as seriously as his mother would’ve liked, preferring either the cello or nothing, but now… He feels like, if he plays it - if he hears a real, live piano note trembling in the air, not from a speaker - maybe, they’ll come back, just for that moment. Maybe, they’ll gather around to listen, like before; maybe, his mother will-

Otabek shakes his head, shuts his eyes. Hurts, _god_ it hurts.

Nothing will happen if he plays it. Live music can’t bring back the dead. He knows this. He’s still not that crazy.

He wants to play it anyway. For his sake. For his soul.

Slowly, Otabek comes closer. He takes a thin cushion from one of the chairs and uses it to wipe the dust off the top, off the fallboard. Specks swirl in the cold, northern light from the window, and Otabek props open the lid, peering in.

It looks okay; every string in its place. He doesn’t know when the piano was tuned the last time, and he’s not sure he could do it properly even if he had the right tools, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s only vaguely aware of Yuri’s presence in the door frame; leaning against it, watching him silently.

Otabek takes his seat in front of the keyboard. He lifts the cover and looks at the ivory, the black, clean and shiny before him. He can’t swallow - his throat is clenched tight as his fingers hover over the keys, barely touching.

He feels his family around him. It’s not real, _not real_ , one part of his mind is telling him, but he _feels them_ , he has to; he needs to know they’re alright, standing here, around him, _please just tell me you’re all alright…_ If he closes his eyes again he can pretend just for a moment, that Mom is telling him to sit up straight, that the batter of feet is his little brother making a mess of things as usual...

That they’re here, _they’re here_ , alive and well, and that Yuri is here, too… Everybody meets him and everybody loves him, because why wouldn’t they, and they’re happy, so happy…

A hand rests on Otabek’s shoulder and he realizes he’s crying. Tears blur his vision when he opens his eyes again and he struggles not to make a sound, but he _feels_ , everything; he feels like screaming, and crying, and smashing the piano in half and _dying_ , dying just so he could see them all again… Just so he could make sure they’re okay without him, even though he’s not okay without them, just to talk to them, _just-_

“It’s okay,” Yuri whispers.

Tears roll down Otabek’s cheeks, fingers curling over the piano keys. Not okay, not okay, _he’s not okay…_

“I’m going to play,” he says, sounding weak to his own ears, hating it.

Yuri only squeezes his shoulder in acknowledgement, and lets go. Steps back.

It makes it easier, somehow, that Yuri isn’t trying to console him, to turn him away; that he’s letting him have this.

So Otabek plays. He suppresses a sob, takes in a deep, calming breath, and starts, not even sure from where. He has no sheet music and his memory is patchy at best, but his fingers glide over the keys, and the sound is…

Oh, the sound is like breathing. Like Otabek’s very heartbeat, heavy and hurting and filled with beautiful, fragile things. He barely sees through his tears, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t; not now that the notes fill the room, sophisticated, strong, like a dance. Like… Yuri.

Yuri, who comes to stand beside the piano; who ties his hair back, straightens his spine and lifts his chin, relaxes his arms in front of him, slightly rounded, fingers poised. He doesn’t look at Otabek as he raises them together, slowly, breathing out, until they’re above his head; until he’s every bit the ballet dancer Otabek pictured him as. Tall, elegant… breathtaking, even in his loose-fitting t-shirt and tattered sweatpants.

Yuri moves, arms sweeping through the air, body held firm - it’s a warm up, Otabek realizes. A set of positions that Yuri fluidly goes through, first with arms, long and graceful, and then legs, feet, controlled and yet effortless…

Otabek blinks away his grief, almost subconsciously slows down the tempo to meet Yuri’s rhythm; he plays one fragment of composition after another, improvises… Watches, spellbound by Yuri’s skill, by his energy - powerful, all-encompassing, bigger than Yuri himself. Yuri continues, holds positions Otabek recognizes - an arabesque, flawless, perfectly balanced.

Otabek is riveted.

Yuri’s strength, his agility are unparalleled; he dances a variation, one that he already knows or is also improvising, and his eyes are closed, completely caught up in the movement. In the flow, seamless, light, smooth like silk; like he’s born just for this. For this beauty, this unworthy stage in a stranger’s home.

They follow each other, music and dance, chase one another in time and that small space, and flutter, meld, become one before pulling away again… Before Otabek’s hands slow to a stop, the last note hanging in the air, and Yuri holds his position, out of breath, arms outstretched, facing a non-existent audience; waiting for applause that will never come.

His cheeks are colored, skin glistening with sweat, and he relaxes. Stands up straight again and gazes out the window, settling his breathing, but Otabek isn’t sure if Yuri sees anything beyond the glass. Otabek wants to reach for him, to embrace him, but he lets Yuri break the silence first.

“Well,” Yuri says shakily. He smiles a brittle, pained little smile; one that carries the weight of everything Yuri’s been, everything he left behind. Everything he could’ve _become_. “I haven’t done that in a while,” he whispers, and sounds defeated.

Then he turns, looks at Otabek with shining eyes, brimming with tears. “Beka-”

But he doesn’t finish before Otabek moves; before he’s on his feet and walking over, fitting a hand to the back of Yuri’s neck and pulling him down, closer, crushing their lips together.

“I’m here, Yura, I’m here…” Otabek whispers, and continues kissing, hard and biting, because he needs it; needs it to be rough and _real_ , needs to stop choking on his own past, on his own shattered future.

Yuri grips at Otabek’s clothes, lets out a quiet sob and returns the kiss forcefully, teeth and demand to combat the tears. Yes, they’re broken; they’re in pieces, having only this, only each other to try and put themselves back together. Otabek’s hands find their way into Yuri’s hair, undo the ponytail and pull; hold tight, breathe, _just breathe..._

They kiss and lose themselves, lose their breath and track of time… Somehow making their way back to the mattress, to the warmth of the fire, now the only source of light in the near-dark of the living room.

In the orange flicker they undress, slowly; they peel off their clothing and press together, tangled in their blankets, skin, touches, gasps… Otabek doesn’t think; he has no energy left for guilt, sadness, for pain - he has Yuri, underneath him. Yuri’s red lips that seek his own, Yuri’s slender hands that hold him close and blue eyes that look at him, only him, and _want him._

Otabek cherishes every centimeter of Yuri’s body. He kisses him, fingertips ghosting over Yuri’s soft skin, feeling every shift of Yuri’s taut muscles, every tilt into Otabek’s touch. Yuri makes it clear that he likes it, likes Otabek’s hands on him, and he doesn’t stop touching Otabek in return, kissing him back like there’s no alternative; this and nothing else…

Yuri spreads his legs, an invitation, a request, and he whimpers into Otabek’s mouth when Otabek slicks a finger and rubs against his hole. Tight for only a moment, before Otabek slips the finger inside, carefully, and Yuri takes it, beautifully.

No words, just sounds; just Yuri’s quivering, thin mewls, his responsive body, opening up for Otabek. His hips meeting Otabek’s finger, as Otabek laps at Yuri’s neck, sucks a mark into that collarbone, forever tempting; as Otabek ruts against Yuri’s side for a touch of friction, panting into Yuri’s shoulder.

“Beka, _ah…_ ”

It’s a plea, a need for more, and Otabek adds another finger, feels Yuri shiver against him, sees Yuri’s cock leaking onto his smooth abdomen.

Otabek wants it; in his mouth, on his tongue, wants to taste it… He kisses down, mouths at Yuri’s hipbone, sharp and smooth, and prolongs the pleasure; he drags his lips to the inside of Yuri’s thigh - strong, firm muscle rippling under his lips - and Yuri gasps. Otabek swirls his tongue over the sweat-damp skin, his fingers not stopping, sliding in and out, fucking Yuri as Otabek devours him.

Yuri sounds like he’s coming apart, reacting to every new sensation with a moan, and when Otabek finally moves to Yuri’s hard, flushed cock and licks at the tip, Yuri’s hips buck off the mattress, a whine escaping his throat. Otabek wraps his lips around Yuri’s dick and takes him in, down, down, as far as he can; hot, and heavy, and salty, and he loves it, fuck, loves all of this-

He sucks, licks and relishes in Yuri’s writhing; how he doesn’t seem to know whether he likes Otabek’s mouth or Otabek’s fingers more, slick and wet on all sides, and then Yuri sobs again, god, Otabek can’t take it-

“Fuck, fuck, Beka, no, too soon-” Yuri’s weak voice is barely audible over the crackle of fire, but Otabek eases up anyway. He slows the motion of his fingers, lets go of Yuri’s cock and looks up at Yuri’s face, alight and soft with abandon, with lust…

“I want… to feel you…” Yuri says, once more tilting his hips down on Otabek’s fingers, for emphasis.

Otabek wants him, too, yes, _so much_ , and he tells him so. He settles between Yuri’s legs, over him, and kisses him, whispers into his lips, “I want to feel you, too… All of you, Yura, _I need you…_ ” He takes Yuri’s lower lip between his teeth, pulls and sucks, and feels something wet on his face - tears, but not sure whose; not sure if he’s crying, or if it’s Yuri, or both of them. He only knows that they need this, this heat and fire and tenderness, this intimacy that is just theirs and that protects them from the world outside.

While still kissing, Otabek coats his own cock with lube from his fingers, positions himself, and slowly, carefully, pushes into Yuri. Yuri’s legs clench around him, mouth pulling away on a moan, and his eyes burn, burn right into Otabek’s.

“Oh,” Yuri gasps, trembling. “Yes, oh… _Yes…_ ”

It’s so hot; so _tight_ , Yuri is so wonderfully tight around him that Otabek feels overwhelmed. He holds Yuri’s gaze, finally inside him all the way, and stays still, because he needs time. He needs time to gather himself, to not fall apart that he’s inside Yuri, that Yuri is _here_ , naked and wrapped around him, and beautiful, god, so beautiful…

Otabek bows his head and rests his forehead on Yuri’s shoulder, breathes him in; knows, with bone-deep certainty, that he loves Yuri. That he would give his life for Yuri, for this, and not regret it for a second.

He lifts his head back up, and Yuri must see something in Otabek’s face, because he raises his eyebrows, asking wordlessly.

And Otabek simply says, “Thank you.”

_Thank you for being here. For wanting me. Caring for me. Thank you for being my anchor and my solace, my strength in this godforsaken place._

“Otabek…” Yuri whispers, as though surprised at this, but Otabek stops him from saying anything more by pulling out, only a little, and then pushing back in, making Yuri’s words fade into a moan.

They make love without rush, slowly and gently, kissing, savoring each other… Otabek rocks his hips into Yuri, drinking in his sounds, nuzzling into his neck, his face, feeling him, _everywhere_.

Yuri meets his every thrust, clings to Otabek, and looks at him… Yuri looks at him like Otabek is the most precious thing he has, something to be treasured, _loved_ , and Yuri’s lips are so soft when they kiss back, Yuri’s hands cupping Otabek’s face…

“Beka, I…”

Otabek pushes in more forcefully this time, feeling his own desire build, begging for release. He wants to come inside Yuri, wants to find that sweet spot and make Yuri cry out in pleasure-

Yuri arches off the bed, almost shouting Otabek’s name. “Yes, yes, yes,” he repeats, shaking under Otabek, _craving…_ And Otabek reaches between them, takes Yuri in his hand and strokes him, watching each change in Yuri’s expression, watching his wide eyes and parted lips, feeling Yuri’s nails dig into his shoulders-

And then Yuri comes, in spurts of white between their bodies, with incoherent words and tensing around Otabek, strong thighs holding him as Otabek fucks into him more, more, just there-

“Yura, Yura,” is all Otabek can murmur before he comes, too, fills Yuri up in a few deep thrusts. He doesn’t even notice Yuri kissing him, muttering nonsense into his lips, until he comes back to himself. Until he collapses on top of Yuri, smiling, high on lust and love and ecstasy.

They breathe hard, shallow, hearts pounding in tandem, sweaty and satiated, neither willing to move just yet. Yuri caresses Otabek’s face, gazes into his eyes, and says, “We’re okay…?” It comes out more like a question, a need for reassurance, sudden and unexpected from Yuri. Otabek smiles wider.

“We’re okay,” he says, and presses his forehead to Yuri’s as Yuri smiles back.

* * *

On their third day at the house, they talk about their families.

Yuri says how he has no idea what happened to his mother, if she was even alive at the time of the outbreak. Instead he talks about the most important person in his life - his grandfather, who raised him, gave him everything, and for whom Yuri has nothing but love and fondness.

And Otabek in turn talks about the craziness that was his own group of Altins back in Kazakhstan. It’s difficult, yes, but in a strange way it’s also like… Like Yuri is meeting them, getting to know them, even if only through stories. Personal, and sensitive, but also… fitting, especially when Yuri declares that he’d _fucking love_ Otabek’s oldest sister, because they’d both enjoy poking fun at Otabek at any given time. (Otabek - internally, begrudgingly - agrees.)

On their fourth day, when the rain stops, they venture out, and walk through the pine forest, surprisingly free of walkers, and try to climb trees, as though they are kids, carefree and happy.

After, Yuri shoves Otabek into the leather armchair in the living room and rides him, hard and fast and making Otabek’s head spin by the time he comes, loudly, fingers digging into Yuri’s hips and Yuri muttering filthy, glorious things in his ear.  
  
And on their fifth day at the house - their fifth _morning_ \- Otabek wakes up to a gun pointed at his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, I cried while writing this chapter, and I'm sorry about the hanging off a cliff at the end. Next chapter hopefully won't be this long, so it might come out faster!
> 
>  _And_ , of course that I had to rethink some things, which means that, because of reasons, we're up to 6 chapters now! Haha, again, only two more to go! 
> 
> I CAN'T. BELIEVE. THE RECEPTION THIS HAS GOTTEN. THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO MESSAGED ME AND TWEETED ME AND COMMENTED AND LEFT KUDOS YOU GUYS HONESTLY FUEL MY WRITING FIRE. B L E S S


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